WRITING AND SELLING 
A PLAY 



FANNY CANNON 










a\ 















. 






























. 















cp 


















WRITING AND SELLING 
A PLAY 



PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOR 
THE BEGINNER 



BY 



FANNY CANNON 









True ease in writing cornea from art, not chance. 
As those move easiest who have learned to dance." 

— Pora. 




NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1915 



cv 



COPYKIOHT, 1915, 
BT 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



J&/.S* 



THE QUINN & BOOEN CO. PRE86 
RAHWAY, N. J. 



QQT 251915 

<S>CI.AJ 14233 



To all those writers whose plays the author 

has read and criticised, and whose questions 

and difficulties have been her inspiration, this 

book is dedicated 



PREFACE 

During my work as critic of play-manuscripts, the 
efforts, with very few exceptions, of novices in the 
art of play-writing, I have frequently been asked 
why there has been no book written which really 
answered the many problems of the beginner. That 
critics of play-manuscripts are so often asked this 
same question proves that the books already before 
the public do not entirely fill the need, either be- 
cause of their nature or their cost. Many books are 
written on and around the subjects of play-writing 
and the theater, but they are chiefly academic and 
theoretical in treatment, serving as the professor or 
lecturer on the university rostrum rather than the 
teacher in the kindergarten. This book is intended 
for the infant-class in play-construction — for the 
tyro who has never written a play at all, or who 
is struggling with his first. During its progress I 
shall endeavor to answer as simply as possible some 
of the questions which arise in the mind of the 
aspirant ignorant of the stage, which same questions 
seem so simple and so obvious to those of us already 
connected with the theater. The present volume 
is in no sense meant as a substitute for any book 
already before the public, but rather as a sort of 
preface to the more theoretical literature on the 
subject. 



vi PREFACE 

Wherever possible, different points are illustrated 
by actual faults occurring in manuscripts brought 
to my notice. These serve better as examples and 
lessons than imaginary, or merely possible, blunders 
which might be made in, as yet, unwritten plays. 

The example of other text-books on various sub- 
jects is followed in the use of quotations from sun- 
dry writers and recognized authorities on this and 
similar matters. Wherever a play, mentioned in 
the text, is known to be published, and of interest 
to the student, it will be found listed in the 
Bibliography. 

Written, not from the academic standpoint, but 
from inside the theater through active connection 
with it, as actress, writer, and stage-director, I sin- 
cerely hope my efforts will be of some slight service 
to the friends made during my connection with the 
work. 

The foundation of the following chapters is a 
series of articles- — about twelve thousand words — 
printed in The Editor, Ridgewood, N. J., January to 
June, 1910. Through the courtesy of that maga- 
zine, these articles have been revised and much 
extended. 

The chapter on the " Closet " Drama and part of 
Chapter XXI are included through the courtesy of 
The Theatre. 

Fanny Cannon. 

New York City, 1915. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Manufacturing a Play 1 

II. The Theater 5 

III. The Author 17 

IV. Theme and Story 28 

V. Phases of the Story 42 

VI. The "Closet" Drama 50 

VII. Technique 62 

VIII. The Characters .1 75 

IX. The Actor, His Director, and His Audience . 90 
X. The Actor, His Director, and His Audience 

(Continued) 100 

XI. The Scenario Ill 

XII. More About the Scenario 124 

XIII. Writing the Play: Dialogue and Action . 140 

XIV. Form of Dialogue 153 

XV. Idiosyncrasies of Dialogue 165 

XVI. Dramatic Action 176 

XVII. Stage-directions 184 

XVIII. The Manuscript 198 

XIX. The Aftermath 212 

XX. Some Phases of Play- writing . . . .221 

XXI. Other Phases of Play-writing .... 228 

XXII. One-act Plays 237 

XXIII. The Commercial Aspect 244 

XXIV. And Finally 264 

Appendix A. Analysis of The Nigger, by Ed- 
ward Sheldon . . . . . . . .269 

Appendix B. Working scenario of The Second 

Mrs. Tanqueray 290 

Appendix C. Form of dramatic agent's con- 
tract . 305 

Bibliography. Including list of plays with 

references 307 

Index 313 



WRITING AND SELLING A 
PLAY 

CHAPTER I 
MANUFACTURING A PLAY 

THEORY AND PRACTICE^ 

The term " manufacturing " has been frequently 
applied to the making or building of a play. The 
word may seem inapposite in reference to a branch of 
literary composition. However, on the purely techni- 
cal side of the art, there is something of the deliber- 
ateness of manufacture, and as the purpose of this 
book is to explain, so far as a text-book can, the way 
to put a play together, the use of the expression will 
be better understood. This is the only part of play- 
writing which can be taught — the mechanical art of 
construction. Subject, treatment, inspiration, varia- 
tion — all are individual. 

Bernard Shaw, in his Dramatic Essays and Opin- 
ions, says : " The manufacture of well-made plays is 
not an art; it is an industry. It is not at all hard 
for a literary mechanic to acquire it; the only diffi- 
culty is to find a literary mechanic who is not by na- 
ture too much of an artist for the job. For nothing 
spoils a well-made play more infallibly than the least 



2 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

alloy of high art, or the least qualm of conscience on 
the part of the writer," and so on, in his own in- 
imitable manner. All of which cleverly-written 
diatribe may offend or amuse the earnest playwright 
according to his humor, and you may take the term 
as seriously or as humorously as you please. Easy 
writing is not easy ; whether you approach your task 
as an industry or an art, in spite of the volatile 
Mr. Shaw, neither you nor any " literary mechanic " 
is going to find it any too simple. Of late, the ex- 
pression, " well-made " play, always in quotation 
marks, has come to be a term of reproach in the 
modern drama, as applied to the so-called mechanical 
structures of Messieurs Scribe and Sardou. Both of 
these gentlemen, however, were indefatigable workers. 
And the novice is to remember, whether mentioned sar- 
castically or otherwise, the " well-made " play and its 
mechanics stand at the basis of all good play- 
writing. 

Theories of play-writing are as many and diverse 
as their authors. Often they dispute each other in 
terms polite and academic, but none the less positive. 
One writer maintains that the characters make the 
play ; an equally decided writer contradicts him flatly 
— the play makes the characters: successful drama- 
tists have used both methods. One authority insists 
on four acts, another on three, and so on. 

In spite of these differences of opinion, " the play's 
the thing," and various authors have various ways 
of arriving at the finished product. Play-writing 
is an exacting, even a limited, art — with all due apolo- 



MANUFACTURING A PLAY 3 

gies to Mr. Shaw and Mr. Bennett for disagreeing 
with them — but it is not a problem in mathematics, 
to be solved in but one way. Any positive theory is 
impossible; certain fixed formulas might be deter- 
mined on as the only and all-embracing laws for 
dramatic writing, when some genius of the theater 
would ignore them completely in a play which would 
become the basis for an entirely new set of laws. And 
these laws vary with each individual writer and with 
each period of writing. The remark of a playwright 
who has written more than one successful play is of 
interest here: "An answer to that question (i.e., how 
to write a play) can be only a rather confused recol- 
lection of a very intricate process which varies with 
each piece of work." 

Nevertheless, the mechanism of the theater, the 
stage itself, require that certain laws be recognized. 
These laws, this part of play-writing, cannot be safely 
set aside. The play must be presented by actors, 
and witnessed by an audience ; neither body can be 
ignored. (The so-called " Closet-drama " will be 
touched on in a later chapter.) Other laws, made 
from time to time by different writers, may or may 
not be transgressed according to the skill of the play- 
wright. Laws are made and genius breaks them. 
Books of this kind, therefore, are not written for 
genius. Yet— I would humbly parenthesize — genius 
could not play a violin solo the first time the instru- 
ment was taken into the hand, so it is prudent to 
assume that even the heaven-born require some slight 
directing at first. 



4 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

You must, for that reason, make the acquaintance 
of the instrument on which even the greatest of 
dramatists must play his solo — the stage. Also, as 
Charles Frohman once said : " Study construction, 
not for the construction's sake, but as the neatest, 
swiftest way of telling dramatically whatever you have 
to tell." Sometimes, a poor idea, skillfully and clev- 
erly rendered into the play-form, will serve its pur- 
pose better than a great idea, weakly and incoherently 
expressed. 



CHAPTER II 
THE THEATER 

PARTS OF THE HOUSE THE PLATFORM-STAGE THE 

STAGE THE WINGS THE FLIES PROPERTIES 

DROPS SCENERY STAGE-DIRECTIONS LIGHTS 

DIAGRAM 

Parts of the house. For a few moments we will 
stand with the spectator in the auditorium facing the 
stage. The appearance is that of a gigantic picture- 
frame. This frame is called the proscenium, or 
proscenium arch. In it, on either ride, are located 
the boxes. Hanging in the frame or proscenium is 
the asbestos or fire-curtain, demanded by the fire- 
department in most cities. This curtain remains down 
only from the time a theater opens for a perform- 
ance until the orchestra leader lifts his baton for 
the beginning of the overture. It is always ready to 
be lowered quickly in case of emergency. Behind 
this asbestos curtain is the regular curtain or act- 
drop, which rises at the beginning of the play and 
is used between all acts. In front of the curtain a 
stretch of the stage is visible, bordered on the side 
nearest the spectator by the footlights. This strip 
of stage is called the " apron." It is a remnant of 
the old platform-stage of other days, when the stage 

5 



6 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

projected into the auditorium, and part of the audi- 
ence actually sat on it. No wonder, in those days, 
the " aside " and the monologue, addressed to the 
spectators, were so popular. The actor was standing 
practically in the midst of his audience; speaking 
to them direct seemed in no way incongruous. As 
the stage receded more and more and all action took 
place back of the proscenium, this platform narrowed, 
until to-day, in the average modern theater, it is the 
merest strip; in some theaters the hanging curtain 
actually touches the footlights. There are a few 
exceptions, chiefly in old theaters still in use — notably 
the Academy of Music, in New York, which was built 
for Grand Opera. One new theater has a striking 
example of a wide " apron," giving us in a very 
large way some impression of the old platform-stage ; 
this is the New York Hippodrome, where the 
" apron " is about equal in depth to the stage itself. 
But, again, this theater was built for a definite pur- 
pose — scenic spectacles and circus performances. 
Otherwise, for all ordinary playhouses, the " apron " 
is practically no more. 

The stage. When there is no performance taking 
place in a theater, the curtains are " up " and the 
bare stage is visible from the auditorium. By going 
through one of the boxes we reach this land of mys- 
tery and from now on place ourselves in the position 
of the people of the theater. 

The entire stage stretches from footlights to rear- 
wall, from side-wall to side-wall. Of this expanse the 
only part visible to a spectator at a performance 



THE THEATER 7 

is that inclosed by the scenery. On this visible sec- 
tion, at all times, is stretched a floor-cloth or ground- 
cloth, which prevents any hollow noises from the 
boards beneath. Over this cloth are stretched the 
various carpets and ground-pieces required in dif- 
ferent plays. 

Traps. The space underneath the stage has also 
its uses. The chief of these which may concern the 
playwright is the' use of " traps," as they are called. 
These are openings in the floor of the stage. Orig- 
inally intended for the sudden entrance and exit of 
characters in fairy pieces, moralities, and the like, 
to-day they are used almost entirely as wells for 
staircases supposed to lead to a lower part of the 
house in which the playwright's characters are living 
and of which the audience sees but a section; or as 
openings into supposed cellars or dungeons — or in 
any of the ways modern realism requires. There is 
a " trap " at the New York Hippodrome which, 
opened, permits the inflow of water deep and wide 
enough to enable horses and men to swim. Other 
traps are mere holes in the floor, through which 
electric-light wires are passed as needed. 

The wings. On either side of the stage-proper — 
that is, the part visible to the spectator during a 
performance — we have the " wings." Here an actor 
waits for his cue before entering the scene. In the 
earlier days of the drama all scenes, whether exte- 
riors or interiors, were represented by sections of 
canvas stretched on frames, which were shoved on 
to the stage in grooves intended for the purpose. 



8 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

There are still theaters in small towns where this 
primitive method is used. The appearance is very 
much that of the toy-theaters of the shops, when 
each piece of the cardboard scenery is shoved into 
the groove intended for it. To-day, only an ex- 
terior has use for this old system, when these 
" wings " represent trees, and so forth, permitting 
the performer to enter at various points of the stage 
as one might in any open space. They are no longer 
run in grooves, but braced to the floor by special irons, 
or braces. All interiors are now closed in by " flats," 
like the walls of an actual room, these flats being 
braced to the floor, but the space outside is still called 
the wings. The stage no longer slopes, as in other 
days, from the rear-wall down to the footlights ; 
instead, the auditorium slopes and the stage is 
level. 

The flies. Over the stage, the space between the 
proscenium arch and the roof is greater than the 
height from the stage-floor to the top of the prosce- 
nium. Looking up, one sees multitudinous ropes, 
stretches of electric lights, hanging scenery and 
borders, and so on. This space is called the flies. 
The fly-gallery runs along the sides, from which 
stage-hands manipulate the many ropes and lights 
used in the course of a performance. 

That place of wit and fascination, the green-room, 
is no more, except, perhaps, as a remnant of other 
days in some old theater, or as an especial courtesy 
to the players in some ultra-modern playhouse. Actors 
wait in their dressing-rooms or in the wings. 



THE THEATER 9 

Properties. The " properties " of a play include 
everything which is used in any way by the actors 
or which is required by the playwright, from the 
billet-doux handed to the heroine to the safe blown 
open by the villain. 

Drops. The " drops " are curtains used during the 
progress of a play. The back-drop may represent 
a panorama of land, sea, or sky ; it is rarely neces- 
sary in interior scenes, except when visible through 
open doors or windows. 

Scenery. Modern scenery is' very wonderful in 
realism and intricacy ; there is hardly a demand which 
a writer can make which cannot be met. But in 
any scene there are certain things meant only to be 
looked at, while others must be used. These latter 
we call " practicable " or " practical." Good writers 
use both terms. The former is correct from the 
standpoint of good English; your stage-hand almost 
invariably says " practical." If we say, " At back, 
left, is a practicable window " or " Down right is a 
book-case with practical books," we mean that the 
window must be built so that it will open and shut, 
that the book-case must have real books which can be 
taken out. Otherwise, the book-case would be made 
with painted or simulated book-backs, and the win- 
dow would merely look like a window without actu- 
ally being one. 

Stage-directions. Stage-directions are always 
given from the point of view of the actor. Thus, 
if we say " right," we mean the actor's right, not that 
of the audience. If we say " down-stage," we mean 



10 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

down toward the audience from the actor. There- 
fore, " up-stage " is at the back, " down-stage " is 
near the footlights, " right " is to the actor's right, 
facing the audience, and " left " to his left. 

The center of the stage speaks for itself; taking 
a line from the footlights to the back we have up- or 
down-center. A line half -way to the right from front 
to back would be about right center, or, in profes- 
sional manuscripts, R.C. The upper end of this line 
would be upper right center, and so on. All en- 
trances and exits in the sides are right and left, 
or in the director's MS., R. and L. We say down 
R. or up L. When more exact, we say right second 
entrance, L. 3d entrance, or wherever the particular 
door or entrance is placed. In his MS., your experi- 
enced playwright is apt to say : " At about R. 2 is a 
window ; at R. 4 is a door." This dates back to the 
time when all entrances were made between canvas 
flats or wings, as mentioned earlier in this chapter. 
These spaces between the wings were called first, 
second, third, fourth or more, entrances, the first be- 
ing the entrance nearest the footlights. Therefore, 
the above direction would mean that a window must 
be placed at the point where in the old days was the 
second space between the wings. The canvas flat 
nearest the footlights is still called the tormenter. 
An ancient legend is sometimes found scrawled on 
this piece of canvas even in these days, which puns 
on the spelling — " Whoso spitteth on the tormenter 
maketh himself a tormentor." A door at about the 
middle of the side-wall of a " set " would be spoken 



THE THEATER 11 

of as R. 2 or R. S; or, if there was but one door 
in the wall, simply as " door R." 

I know that very admirable writer, William Archer, 
jeers at these abbreviations in no uncertain terms, 
as " condemnable " and " abhorrent jargon." Never- 
theless, the professional manuscript placed by the 
writer in the hands of the manager and stage-director 
nearly always uses just these abbreviations: they 
save time to write and are easily understood. A play 
intended for the publisher would, of necessity, be 
revised for the benefit of the non-theatrical reader. 
Such directions, however, are to be sparingly used by 
the novice, as I will explain later. 

The drop-curtain. Except in revivals of old melo- 
dramas, a scene played in front of a " drop " near 
the footlights is a rare thing. If used, the drop 
is so painted as to give the appearance of depth and 
distance. Such a drop was used in the last act of 
The Bird of Paradise; the scene was a dark one 
and the drop represented the distant volcano very 
effectively. But I do not advise the use of it, espe- 
cially for the novice. Old devices must be used skill- 
fully to hide their artificiality. In vaudeville, monol- 
ogists and singers appear in front of the drop — what 
is called by the fraternity " an act in one," meaning 
between the footlights and the first entrance — but that 
is because of the continuous nature of the perform- 
ance; something must be going on while the stage 
is being set for larger scenes. 

Lights. With the lights on the stage the play- 
wright may have much or little to do. If there are 



12 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

no especial light effects required, he will not have 
to worry himself about the matter; it may safely be 
left to the theater electrician. But an author who 
directs his own plays likes to know something of the 
lights to be used; it will do the novice no harm to 
know a little of them and where they are placed. The 
principal light on the stage is furnished by an almost 
continuous square frame of banks of lamps — two or 
three rows — around the proscenium arch and across 
the floor of the stage. These, in turn, are called 
the footlights, the proscenium lights at either side, 
and the first border lights across the top just back 
of the first hanging strip of canvas or masking-cloth. 
These strips of canvas are called " borders," and back 
of each one, to the last border, may hang strips of 
border lights, if the scene is an exterior. Also at 
each side may hang strips of lights, parallel to the 
proscenium lights, to keep the scenery from casting 
unnatural shadows. These are usually hung on the 
back of the scenery wings. There may even be addi- 
tional footlights in certain exterior scenes, though 
these are chiefly in spectacular productions. 

To illuminate the outside of a window, or the hall- 
way into which a door may be supposed to open, we 
have bunch-lights, or " bunches," and arc lamps. The 
former are clusters of lights arranged with each bulb 
radiating from the center and placed in front of a 
large reflector, all standing on a long, slender iron 
rod about five or six feet tall. Other forms of bunches 
are in oblong or square reflectors, the bulbs pointing 
toward each other from top to bottom. This last 



THE THEATER 13 

arrangement is the one used chiefly when different 
colors are needed in sunset or dark scenes. The arc 
lamps, or " olivettes," are also arranged in reflectors, 
and on standards. Screens, of a size to be easily 
handled, are of wood framing isinglass of the required 
shade — red, blue, green, yellow — and are placed by 
the electrician in front of the light as required. For- 
merly, all lights were white; now, except for the 
" spot light," which is an arc lamp, thrown from 
a gallery on some especial player or scene (usually 
in comic opera or vaudeville), very few white lights 
are to be seen. The usual daylight scene requires a 
yellow light, much less trying to the actors and 
far more natural. There are also in each bank of 
lights bulbs of various other colors, used to repre- 
sent different hours of the day or conditions of the 
atmosphere. The " bunches " are generally used out- 
side an opening door to light what is supposed to be 
another room or hall. The arc is used for exteriors, 
and wherever stronger lights are required. More 
and more is there being made an effort to get these 
lights as near as possible to the ordinary condi- 
tions and aspects they are supposed to represent. 
This special subject is one that Gordon Craig, 
the son of Ellen Terry, has been working on for 
years. 

One use of the arc is in what is known as the 
" baby-spot." It throws a strong light just about 
the size of the human face. To produce the right 
effect, it is placed either on the fly-gallery, in the 
wings, or pointing in through a window, the light 



14 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

falling directly on the face of the actor who may 
be playing an important scene in which it is neces- 
sary to see his expression clearly. On a stage other- 
wise lighted the audience is hardly aware of this 
" spot " ; it merely is able to see a certain face a 
little more clearly without sensing why. 

There is just one other point before we leave this 
question of the purely mechanical side of the stage. 
Every playwright should be something of an archi- 
tect, not only in metaphor but in fact. He must 
know something of the house in which his charac- 
ters live, though he show his audience but one room. 
One often sees, even in the best plays, curious hap- 
penings like the following: an actor exits through 
a door and turns off in a direction which, if we are 
to judge by the appearance of the vista just outside 
the window next the door, would carry him out into 
space. And he is not supposed to be going out, but 
upstairs ! Or he will re-enter from a side of the stage 
which he could not possibly reach from his point of 
exit, unless the house turned around. Sardou is 
often accused of being a mere mechanic of the thea- 
ter, yet some of his methods of work should be a guide 
and inspiration to many a novice. Jerome A. Hart, in 
Sardou and the Sardou Plays, tells us that Sardou 
not only drew up plans of the houses in which his 
action took place, but made maps of the imaginary 
vicinities where his people lived. He showed a friend 
on one occasion a sketch : " That is a pen-and-ink map 
of Pontarey, the scene of my latest play. Pontarey 
exists only in my imagination, and to avoid any mis- 



THE THEATER 



15 




16 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

takes or confusion as to the movements of the per- 
sonages, I have drawn this." 

These things are only to inform the novice. Until 
he knows more about it, there is no need to fill his 
manuscript up with directions as to the positions 
of his characters. Unless he is used to stage-direction, 
he is almost certain to get it wrong. The fewer 
stage-directions, the better — until he knows his busi- 
ness. Incorrect directions are worse than none at 
all. 

The accompanying diagram will be a help. 

Outside of each door which opens and shuts is a 
wing which folds like a two-leaved screen; it is used 
to hide the regions beyond which would otherwise be 
made visible by the opening door. 

When all this scenery is to be taken down to make 
the stage ready for another act, nothing is moved 
until the manager calls out " Strike ! " Then, with 
practical celerity, each man at his special station 
takes apart the palatial interior and shifts each piece 
to some particular place, ready to be easily found at 
the next performance. By the time the " set " is 
entirely " struck," the next scene is rapidly taking 
shape; what seemed like wild chaos for a few min- 
utes is wonderful order — and Act Two is ready to be 
" called." 






CHAPTER III 
THE AUTHOR 

QUALIFICATIONS TRAINING STUDY DRAMATIC IN- 
STINCT GENERAL CULTURE 

Qualifications. The very first maxim in regard to 
play-writing is : don't do it until you know what you 
are about. You would not dream of sitting down to 
a game of bridge without at least a working knowl- 
edge of the rules. This is doubly true of dramatic 
composition. Learn the rules before you play the 
game. Then play a while for practice before you sit 
down to a game with experts. The people who can 
write plays will write them in spite of all drawbacks. 
The people who cannot should be dissuaded in every 
way permissible to a law-abiding population. I mean 
the foregoing to be discouraging only to that un- 
fortunately large class of would-be dramatists who 
go ahead on the blissful theory that writing a play 
is a mere matter of putting a number of speeches 
into the mouths of certain characters ; or to that 
smaller but more difficult class who live in the hope 
that to them will be given the rare capacity of doing 
something great by intuition and instinct alone. 
These people will never write a play until they realize 
there is something to be learned. It might be well 
for you at this point to turn at once to Chapter 

17 



18 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

XXIII — which is not a bad number for it, in this 
connection — and read it. Afterward, if your deter- 
mination remains unchanged, you can be helped, and 
can help yourself, by study and practice. 

Ask yourself honestly — just how fit are you to write 
a play? You say you have a story to tell. It had 
better stay merely a story than run the risk of being 
marred by a form unfamiliar to the writer. You may 
sometimes write an interesting story which will be 
readable and yet be hardly more than a sketch of. 
the episode — a dramatic outline like a newspaper re- 
porter's accounts, some of which make excellent read- 
ing. But in a play you must work with people, not 
outlines. Their emotions, great or small according 
to the characters, must be human. 

How much do you know of the lives you intend to 
portray, or of life in general? That may seem an 
almost laughable question. Yet it is truly amazing 
how many novices will rush into tremendous subjects 
with which their life experience has rendered them 
utterly unable to cope. Emily Bronte failed in a 
measure when she attempted certain facts of life of 
which she was necessarily ignorant — and she was a 
genius. A play came to my notice some time ago 
which dealt with a big and vital social problem. But 
the play was attempted by a girl barely out of her 
'teens. She might know the facts; what could her 
youth and inexperience guess of the mental processes 
which brought them all about? 

Therefore, for your first play at least — and all 
others, unless you are willing to collaborate — let alone 



THE AUTHOR 19 

what in the nature of things is outside your under- 
standing. It would be well to remember in this con- 
nection, however, that understanding and experience 
are not synonymous terms ; there are many things you 
can find out by study and research. For instance, 
it is not necessary to have been a murderer to write 
a play around such a crime, nor to have been par- 
ticeps criminis in a divorce case to plan a drama on 
divorce conditions. 

Training. However, being sure that you have a 
story to tell and that you fully comprehend the sub- 
ject and its emotions, the next question of your fit- 
ness is : how much do you know of the theater and its 
plays, the actors and their work? You say that from 
the audience you have witnessed plays for many 
years. As spectator only? Or have you dissected 
and analyzed as you watched? It is almost impos- 
sible to do the latter unless you are guided by some- 
one who knows; you will not know just what to dis- 
sect. Unless you are initiated, certain important 
matters will utterly escape you. You might study 
by constant reading of printed plaj's. But the thea- 
ter, like everything else, changes frequently. So, 
in spite of the occasional and, to me, mistaken advice 
to the contrary, you must know something of the 
playhouse and its exigencies. As one writer says: 
" To have been an actor is a better training for a 
playwright than a college education." You may 
writes a play without a technical knowledge of the 
theater, but it will have all kinds of things done 
to it at rehearsals, should it get so far, to pay for 



20 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

your ignorance of the stage and its mechanism. Still, 
these things can all be learned : books, teachers, and, 
best of all, experience, point the way. 

Study. I have spoken of Sardou's methods of work. 
A leaf from his book is not out of place at this point, 
since it shows how one man, earnestly desirous of 
becoming a dramatist, went to work. Says Hart, in 
the book before mentioned: "He (Sardou) began a 
methodical system of analysis of Scribe's plays. For 
instance, he would read the first act of a play, and 
stop there; write the remainder himself and then 
compare his work with Scribe's ; or he would begin in 
the middle of a play, and endeavor from reading 
one act to construct what had gone before and was 
to follow. He thus acquired that stagecraft which 
so puzzled the critics of his earlier plays, for it is 
usually the fruit of long experience." 

The person who has studied plays and the stage 
goes to the work of writing a drama metaphorically 
with his hat off. I remember a friend who after 
years of experience as actress and writer was at 
work on her first play. Almost reverently she spoke 
of it to a non-professional friend, who was mildly 
interested and who then remarked : " John Smith's 
brother writes plays — very clever ones — and he's only 
seventeen." 

Amazed, she said : " Does he know anything of the 
stage? " 

" No, never stood behind the footlights in his life ; 
knows nothing of it." 

This was said as if the matter was of no conse- 



THE AUTHOR 21 

quence, and play-construction as simple as letter- 
writing. But she said nothing more of her play, 
except to people who understood. It was the old 
story of " fools rushing in " 

Walter Pritchard Eaton, one of our foremost 
critics, says on this very matter : " The fact that he 
knows nothing about the theater, that he has never 
trained his mind in terms of the stage, that the dra- 
matic medium is not the medium proper to his imagi- 
nation, does not deter him in the slightest. . . . The 
man who makes plays, not from born instinct, but 
because somebody else has written plays that brought 
a fortune — that man scorns practice, would sit down 
to write a great drama at the first try, would have it 
that a noble, and intricate, and baffling art can be 
mastered in a moment and by anybody." 

You may enter the world equipped with imagination 
and other gifts fitting you for literary composition ; 
but you do not enter this vale of tears a playwright. 
One is not born an electrician or a geometrician, how- 
ever much one's tastes or instincts may run in these 
directions. A taste for anything, even a certain gift 
for it, is not the ability to do it without the addition 
of technical knowledge. 

People with no connection with, or experience in, 
the theater sometimes succeed. They must belong 
to that class of careful observers who in their at- 
tendance at the playhouse have noted just the 
right things for their information and have been pos- 
sessed of a marked natural dramatic instinct. Even 
these must write and re-write. A certain successful 



22 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

dramatist said he did not call himself by that name 
until he had completed his fourth play. And Eugene 
Scribe is said to have had fourteen failures before 
his first success ! 

Dramatic knowledge. Certainly, if not actually 
connected with the stage, there must be a working 
knowledge of its mechanics, its intricacies. Perhaps 
a suggestion I made recently to an aspirant for 
dramatist's honors may be of value to others. If in 
your home city there is a good dramatic club, join 
it. By a good club, I mean one with an efficient 
director, and which gives occasional performances 
in public. Even if you have no remarkable ability 
as an actor, you will at least learn something by 
actual practice of the things which can and cannot 
be done. It will be of especial value in the matter 
of exits and entrances, the handling of a number of 
people, and so on. Another suggestion, if the former 
is not practicable: obtain permission from the man- 
ager to watch from the wings an occasional rehearsal 
of some good stock company playing near you. This 
can sometimes be arranged, and will be of the ut- 
most value in acquainting you with your tools. A 
certain young writer with a recent Broadway suc- 
cess to his credit, deliberately hired himself out to 
a dramatic company as a stage-hand, to get a work- 
ing knowledge of the stage and its environs. 

From the preceding it would seem that actors 
should write the best plays. Not necessarily — any 
more than that a singer should write the best songs. 
But given to the actor the ability to write, and to 



THE AUTHOR 23 

the singer the inspiration to compose, the actor's play 
will be entirely within the scope of the playhouse, 
and the singer's song entirely within the range of 
the human voice. There will be no great mechanical 
error in either. 

Dramatic instinct. I have spoken frequently of 
the dramatic instinct. Just what is it? To most of 
us it is that part,, the only part, of play-writing which 
is born in the writer. By experience and study he may 
acquire skill; lacking this instinct as a birthright, 
the way is long. It is the instinct that makes the 
actor take to the stage as his profession, the writer 
to the drama as his medium. It is only an instinct — 
it is not ability, nor technique, nor experience. 

I speak of it in this way and at such length because 
one very able, very excellent writer and teacher makes 
this astonishing statement, which needs to be con- 
tradicted before we proceed any further : " If you 
have any idea that you have dramatic instinct and 
that it was born in you, get rid of it." Had he said 
" dramatic knowledge " or " dramatic ability," any- 
one, everyone, must agree. But " instinct " of any 
kind is an inborn quality. One is not born a chemist, 
but one is born with a curious instinct for chemical 
and mathematical matters which takes him into that 
field. One has only to watch growing children to 
notice this. Let any one of them have a marked 
instinct for any field of endeavor, and it sticks out 
all over him. Dramatic instinct is as distinct from 
the art of play-writing as is the tendency, which 
keeps the little girl dosing and bandaging her long- 



24 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

suffering dolls in imaginary illnesses, separate from 
the knowledge which may finally make of her a suc- 
cessful physician or skilled trained nurse. The very 
word itself proves this. The best dictionaries define 
it as a " special innate propensity," " natural in- 
tuitive power." The Latin root instinctus means an 
impulse. You will understand, therefore, whenever 
I use the term, I am referring to an " innate pro- 
pensity " and not in any way to ability or knowl- 
edge. It will save you from the confusion evidently 
present in the mind of the writer to whom I have 
referred. That there is such an instinct and that 
in some rare, very rare, instances it can go far has 
been proven by the success of some first plays written 
by authors who had never attempted the work be- 
fore — and, mayhap, never did again. In any case, the 
danger to the author in the differences between in- 
stinct and knowledge is that on the one hand he may 
feel that he is born with some divine gift which 
makes study and practice unnecessary; or on the 
other hand he may fruitlessly wonder why after all 
his study and practice, his knowledge of technique 
and the theater, he has not been able to write any- 
thing that can be truly called a play. The two must 
go together, with perhaps the balance swinging just 
a little bit heavier on the side of hard work and 
study. 

Study plays. For preparation, be sure to include 
in your reading and study modern plays, published, 
or in the theater. Those of the best and most rep- 
resentative of present-day writers — Pinero, Henry 



THE AUTHOR 25 

Arthur Jones, Clyde Fitch, Augustus Thomas, John 
Galsworthy, Charles Rann Kennedy, and many others, 
can all be read in book-form and will serve better 
for models for the novice than those of the more 
" literary " school, of which more later. You need 
not fear what seems to be the bugaboo of some 
writers on this subject, that you will become the dis- 
ciple of one master, or the slave of one form of play 
or subject, if there is enough variation in the plays 
and theaters under your observation. Keep your 
mind open; avoid absolutely any fixed attitude to- 
ward the play. Thus, any deviation from precon- 
ceived notions about the drama need not affect you 
as something wrong. You may really be witnessing 
a skillful blazing of a new trail. If you can write 
at all, the theater will merely show you the correct 
form or mold in which to run your own material. 
That material is worthless unless life itself has given 
you your inspiration. 

Certainly this manner of study will keep you from 
making innumerable unnecessary mistakes. One has 
only to come in frequent contact with a few of the 
novice's errors to realize how easily some of them 
could have been avoided had the writer only gone 
to school to the theater. Besides, the mistakes made 
in unsuccessful plays have their value as well as the 
good points of successful ones. It is a saying inca- 
pable of contradiction — that we learn by the mis- 
takes of others as well as our own. 

General culture. In dramatic writing, as in any 
other art, general culture and education are an 



26 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

asset, though they will not teach you the mastery 
of your preferred task. To one who really wishes 
to become a musician, as an instance, the hearing 
of the best music, the association with the greatest 
artists, will be a distinct addition to the store of 
knowledge which must stand back of every per- 
former. But to anyone not a musician, merely a lover 
of good music, such association does not in the least 
affect performance, however much it may add to his 
opinions and statements on the subject. Therefore, 
it is unnecessary to add that the gift comes first, 
then work on the subject, and lastly whatever culture 
and training along intellectual lines you are fortunate 
enough to have had, or which you may be able to add 
at this time. 

" First plays." Just one word more at this point : 
it is needed. Sometimes when a play is produced we 
are told by the press — should the play succeed — 
that this is the author's first play. And through this 
same medium the author usually insists that he " just 
did it," or that " it wrote itself," or in some other 
way disclaims any real work or effort — though just 
why he should feel this heightens the effect is hard 
to understand, as in most successes people like to tell 
us how hard they have struggled. However, these 
authors never add anything about the many, many 
changes, interpolations, excisions, et cetera, made at 
rehearsals, by the manager, or stage-director, or even 
the actors themselves. Often another and more ex- 
perienced playwright is called in to help. None of 
these names appear on the bills as co-authors. The 



THE AUTHOR 27 

play, in short, has been accepted in spite of its lack 
of stagecraft or other technical deficiencies, because 
it had some unusual qualities and was not altogether 
impossible to re-write. As almost no plays, even by 
experienced writers, see production without some 
changes — though in these cases the authors them- 
selves make the changes as required — it is not likely 
that a novice's first play will be staged untouched. 
But more of this in a later chapter. 



CHAPTER IV 
THEME AND STORY 

STORY ADAPTED TO PLAY-FORM FULL COMPREHEN- 
SION OF THE STORY A REASON FOR THINGS 

KNOWLEDGE OF SUBJECT-MATTER NOVELTY 

THE " SLICE OF LIFE " DRAMA ABILITY TO SELECT 

STORY ONE THEME CARRIED THROUGHOUT 

CHANGE IN PLOT THE PROPAGANDA PLAY THE 

DEAD ISSUE 

Story adapted to play-form. In scope, the play is 
more closely allied to the short story than to the 
novel. The former deals with one episode and its 
incidents, while the latter may be entirely lacking 
in story. Witness the autobiographical novels of 
Thackeray, Dickens, the Brontes — interesting, but 
relating many incidents and episodes, and covering a 
lifetime in characterization. 

The play, like the short story, must contain one 
central motive or idea, and the working out of that 
one idea by whatever lesser attendant matters the 
main theme demands. 

Having a story to tell, you must decide whether 
it is adapted to the play-form. Many stories are 
interesting; all are not necessarily dramatic. Some 
are dramatic, but too simple to work out through 
a play. As a rule, the play presents the dynamic 

28 



THEME AND STORY 29 

phases of life, the crises, the climaxes. Sometimes 
these may be tragic, sometimes humorous. The nov- 
elist can lead us up to one of these crises through 
many chapters, by way of many contributing causes 
and much psychological analysis. Your dramatist can 
only touch on these causes in his exposition. Events, 
which in a story cover many days, must in a play be 
of such a nature as to reconcile us to their covering 
but a few minutes. Sometimes unusual means are 
taken to bring about this reconciliation. In On 
Trial we have a story, absolutely single and pro- 
gressive, yet giving the impression to many unthink- 
ing critics of being the reverse. The play is con- 
cerned with a murder trial. Instead of forcing us 
to listen to evidence which might be tedious coming 
from the witness chair, we are allowed to see the story 
the witness relates as it actually happened. There- 
fore, though in each case, the witness goes back over 
the years, the narration is taking just about the time 
during which we are following it, and the play pro- 
gresses just as a real trial does, just as any good 
detective story does, with a really forward, though 
often seemingly backward, move to its conclusion. 
It is unique, but really not as iconoclastic as many 
of the critics seemed to think.* 



* To prove this statement, comparing this play to a detective 
story instead of a moving-picture, read C. F. Home's definition 
of a detective story in his " Technique of the Novel." Just 
why the moving-picture comparison was made by so many of the 
critics on the morning after the opening is not exactly clear. 
Several months after seeing the play, the present writer saw 



30 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

If you decide that your story is suitable for the 
play-form, you will find it helpful to write it out as 
a story. This is not a scenario, merely a test of its 
dramatic qualities. Arnold Bennett says that a story 
which is not capable of rendering viva voce is not 
worth writing. By the same token, a story which 
cannot be written out is not worth dramatization. It 
is not enough, however, just to have a story; it must 
be of a kind susceptible of dramatic treatment. To 
see it written is a fair test. This method serves 
another purpose: it will show you as no other means 
can just what is in your story. As an instance: 
an actress had written a play. She was a good 
raconteur, dramatic in gesture, enthusiastic, earnest. 
She told the story of her play to several fellow- 
players who listened with the deepest interest. She 
certainly had a " story." According to Bennett, 
rendered aloud, it fulfilled all requirements. Then, in 
turn, each of the group read the play. It was a curi- 
ous circumstance: not three-quarters of the material 
in her mind had been transferred to her manuscript. 
Just this one little test — writing it first as a complete 
story — would have shown her the enormous amount 
she had omitted. 

Comprehension of the story. Be sure you know 
fully all there is in your story. Sometimes after you 
start you will find more, perhaps less, than you 

a moving-picture in which these same devices were used, and it 
gave the same impression of novelty as had the play — proving 
that the method was no more usual to the photoplay than to 
the drama. It belongs to the detective story form. 



THEME AND STORY 31 

thought. Occasionally one will have a story with 
material enough for three plays — and not know it. 
Good stuff is so often wasted in this way, because the 
author does not realize it exists. I remember read- 
ing a play which simply bulged with unused oppor- 
tunity. There was a knowledge of stagecraft and a 
certain sense of construction. But the story was 
weak. The hero was blind, for no reason that I could 
discover ; certainly no dramatic use was made of the 
fact. He might just as well have been lame, or per- 
fectly sound, for that matter. There was a murder, 
and the cause held possibilities ; the situation went 
nowhere. Alone, it might have made a good detective 
story. Another episode was big enough for a play 
by itself, but was only partially developed. One 
idea after another went by the wall because the author 
did not know his own story. 

A reason for things. Have a reason for things. I 
shall speak of this more fully when we come to pre- 
pare the actual scenario. But it is enough to say now 
that, if you make a character so-and-so, it must be 
because it is necessary to have him just that kind 
of a character. If, on the other hand, it is your char- 
acter which has caused your play, then the situations 
to which that character gives rise must have their 
reason in his personality. 

Subject-matter. Know your subject-matter fully, 
whether you are writing a newspaper squib or a 
dramatic composition in five acts and prologue. I 
am reminded just here of a story in a well-known 
magazine. The heroine was a girl who felt she was 



32 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

a genius, but her plain and simple country life of- 
fered no altars on which the fires could burn. Her 
family scrimped and saved that she might go abroad 
to study people and the world. Because of her Art, 
she haughtily refused the hand and heart of a young 
professor in her home town, and sailed away. 
Anxiously the folks back home waited for the golden 
flood to flow from her gifted pen. But she had not 
yet found quite what she sought. Then there drifted 
to her rumors of a book, a clever novel, written by 
her one-time lover. She was disdainful, but curi- 
osity finally prompted her to send for the book. It 
was wonderful, yet sweet and homelike. He had 
used as his models just the dear people among whom 
he lived, and the story glowed with truth. While 
she — it is here that the moral enters. It points ex- 
actly my meaning. Unless you are writing burlesque 
or fantasia, use people and happenings within your 
comprehension, if not your actual experience. 

Do not lay your scenes within a walk of life with 
which you are totally unfamiliar. If your knowl- 
edge of society is bounded by the small village church- 
social or a factory ball, do not write a play dealing 
with the exclusive circles of London or New York 
society. Another apparently useless remark, you say. 
One would think so. Yet I see play-manuscripts all 
too often dealing with all phases of " high-society " 
that would be funny if the attempts were not pathetic 
in their self-betrayal. Why, oh, why, will people 
try to write of the doings of the fashionable world 
when every word they put on paper screams their 



THEME AND STORY 33 

ignorance of the most ordinary usages of that 
world ? 

Novelty. Novelty is at most times the demand of 
manager and public. Do not let yourself think for 
one single instant that you can ignore the importance 
of either demand; their claims must be met. You 
need not be so sure that compliance with the desires 
of the " crowd " is despicable. The play cannot exist 
without the public. No matter how great your mes- 
sage, if they will neither listen nor read, it does not 
reach them. You must get their attention. Be cer- 
tain that in an effort to write down to your public 
you do not write below it. Margaret Mayo says she 
loves her audience. Certainly, the man who despises 
it will not be heeded. Shakespeare's genius, his great 
thoughts, his almost prophetic philosophies, did not 
cause him to forget the public. He provided enter- 
tainment, color, mystery, excitement. His greatness 
reached them through a medium they understood, and 
he did not deny the value of that medium. Since 
Shakespeare did not disdain novelty, neither need 
you. Either your story or its handling must have 
something unusual or " different." The Civil War 
drama, just by way of example, at this present writ- 
ing is almost a dead issue, and to reach a manager 
for production must have some unique or exceptional 
qualification to bring it to his notice. 

The " slice of life " drama. The kinds of " story " 
available in the theater of to-day cannot be classi- 
fied. The field is wide and varied as life itself. So 
far is the drama endeavoring to transcribe reality, 



34 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

that many modern writers make frequent use of what 
Bernard Shaw aptly calls " a slice of life " — an epi- 
sode which has not reached either a catastrophe or 
a " happy ending " by the final curtain. Such plays, 
however, require expert handling; the danger of a 
very real — and perhaps excusable — dissatisfaction on 
the part of the audience is evident. There is also 
a difference of opinion as to the entire propriety of 
this phase, as the drama represents not so much a 
mere segment of life as a boiled-down, concrete es- 
sence of it ; that is, as several writers have said : it is 
not only a picture of life, but a judgment on it. 
The theme in the " slice of life " play leaves the con- 
clusion of the argument to the spectator. There- 
fore, logically, the argument, or syllogism, is incom- 
plete. 

Ability to select story. The ability to select a 
good story is not so rare as one might think. We 
only see the writer's handling of it, which may be 
so bad as to kill his whole idea. Recently the mail 
brought a play — in long-hand — which on reading 
startled with the greatness, the actual grandeur, of 
the theme chosen. It lay in a practically undeveloped 
field so far as modern drama is concerned, and was 
a subject for a master, one able to think greatly 
and feel deeply. It was told as a schoolgirl tells 
a tale to children. The writer's imagination was 
all right, since she had been able to conceive of this 
subject as one for the drama. But she had " bitten 
off more than she could chew." The fault lay not 
so much in this truth as in the fact that the writer 



THEME AND STORY 35 

did not know it, did not for one instant realize the 
actual bigness of the matter itself. To choose a 
subject greater than your capacity is rather a virtue 
than otherwise, since it proves the largeness of your 
viewpoint and the power of your imagination. But 
not to realize the strength of your own ideas puts 
you in the class with the student of the art-school 
who insists on painting in oils from the nude with 
all its marvelous flesh tints, planes, and modeling — 
to say nothing of the mixing of color and use of 
brush — instead of sitting down in front of a few 
plaster cubes and pyramids to learn drawing and per- 
spective. Such a student has a long way to go, be- 
cause he lacks the eye to see the problem which 
such a model and medium present to the person 
who has not yet even learned to draw. 

So often, too, a really good story, one which would 
be entirely within the capability of the writer if 
told differently, is utterly spoiled by his use of this 
tempting but entirely unfamiliar form of writing. 
For that reason it is well to realize that even a good 
story or situation does not necessarily make that com- 
posite structure — a play. In addition there must be 
what William Archer, in About the Theater, speaks 
of as " study of character, observation of life, orig- 
inality of method." 

One theme carried throughout. I have said there 
must be but one theme or motive in a play; be sure 
you carry it through your composition. Without 
a central theme or argument, you have nothing on 
which to hang your play. A certain drama — only 



36 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

in manuscript — started out giving the impression that 
it would deal with a phase of the labor question. It 
was badly done, but the idea was there. It was com- 
pletely lost sight of before the end of Act Two, and 
the reader was plunged into a maze of impossible 
" society " situations. Anything which delays or 
turns aside or fogs the steady moving forward of 
your story is out of place ; and, unless handled by a 
very skilled craftsman, this " matter out of place " 
will show itself very plainly as a detriment to the 
play's success. 

Theme and subject. There is a distinction be- 
tween theme or motive, and subject. " The soul of 
a play is its theme, and the body of a play is its story. 
A play may have a great theme and an inade- 
quate story, or an interesting story, and scarcely 
any theme at all." The motive of Othello is the 
devastating power and unreason of jealousy. The 
subject is the particular phase of jealous}' displayed 
by Othello and the causes leading thereto. The story 
or subject must be original in treatment and ex- 
pression ; the motive may be as old as the hills. An 
old theme can be treated in a new way : new light may 
be brought to bear upon it from a totally different 
angle. Otherwise, all of the available material would 
have been used up centuries ago. There are only 
just so many human combinations, just so many laws 
of human relationships. But the differences in their 
combinations, the variation in these relationships, are 
well-nigh as many as the individuals included in 
them. The point of view in no two people is identical. 



THEME AND STORY 37 

Therefore, in spite of a certain limitation in theme, 
there is a wide area in expression. There may be 
half a dozen stories to express the theme you have 
in mind. Your skill is shown in choosing the best 
and most dramatic of these stories. 

Change in plot. A change in story or plot during 
the course of a play is an even worse fault than a 
change of theme, because more glaringly noticeable 
to the audience. It is not sufficient to give an exact 
portrait of life, the portrait must be explained; not 
to explain the matter which it was evident at the 
start you intended should be unfolded or disentangled 
is almost fatal: which is another difficulty of the 
" slice of life " form of drama. I have seen this 
complete change of plot in the short confines of a 
one-act play — by a novice, needless to state. It is 
not an error apt to be made by an experienced 
writer. 

Propaganda plays. As a matter of motive and 
story, I have frequently encountered what might be 
called the " propaganda " play — the play whose mo- 
tive is to convert an audience to a certain way of 
thinking on some subject of public policy or inter- 
est. It is a difficult medium to use for such a pur- 
pose, and best let alone by the novice until he is 
more familiar with his tools ; otherwise he will only 
succeed in being deadly dull. An audienoe hates to 
be preached at — unless it is done deftly. The ser- 
mon form of play is by no means an impossibility. 
It has been done, and done successfully in the last 
few years, but " a play that is a bore cannot claim 



38 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

salvation on the ground that it is a sermon." In deal- 
ing with the propaganda play I am not so much 
referring to the modern form of morality or thesis 
play — most people are agreed that certain things 
are good, and their opposites bad — nor do I mean the 
dynamic type of play intended to arouse the public 
conscience, but to the style of play which deals with 
a subject on which there are distinctly several points 
of view and in the discussion of which an author 
risks offending or even insulting part of an audi- 
ence, however much he may succeed in interesting 
those who already hold the same opinions as himself. 
When a play is written along such lines the question 
must be so handled as to please those who agree with 
the author's premise, while at the same time present- 
ing arguments sufficiently strong to his opponents 
to make them see, temporarily at least, his point 
of view. All kinds of people make up an audience and 
it is not well to antagonize, to say nothing of the 
fact that the writer is sure to be refused a hearing 
by any manager who happens to hold opposing views 
— unless his play is big enough in treatment to some- 
what conceal his motive. J. H. Gardiner, in The Mak- 
ing of Arguments, says: "In no case, with a popu- 
lar audience is it very safe to depend much on the 
burden of proof; almost always it is better to jump 
in and actively build up the argument on your own 
side. In argument, as in strategy, take the offensive 
whenever you can." By " taking the offensive " in 
play-writing is meant that you must prove your 
points as you go along and not wait for possible 



THEME AND STORY 39 

disagreements to spur you into explanations. Fore- 
stall every one of them; if you cannot, you have 
no right to even attempt the propaganda drama. 

But, if a play is not propaganda, not for the pur- 
pose of making converts to the author's point of 
view, why risk giving offense to part of an audience 
when there is no possible dramatic reason for doing 
so ? It is done, oh, yes, every day by the unthinking 
aspirant. As padding (i.e., any extraneous matter 
used as " filler " to make a play long enough) he 
will drag in a discussion on some question of the 
day, one that in no way furthers his play or story, 
and treat it so flippantly or ignorantly as to dis- 
gust everyone who has thought on the subject. There 
was a play which had a different plot in each of the 
five acts, each act was laid in a different part of the 
world, and each act contained some entirely irrele- 
vant conversation between the characters. One of 
these arguments was of the order I have just been 
discussing — the kind that has no business in a play 
unless it helps the story to get somewhere, and which 
in that case must be so treated as not to insult the 
intelligence of those who probably know more of the 
subject than the writer. Charles Frohman said once 
in an interview, when explaining why he refused to 
even read a certain type of play on such subjects 
as the labor question, women's suffrage, and so forth : 
" If the author does not take sides, his play has no 
conclusion ; if he does take sides, he offends at least 
half his audience." Your manager wants everybody 
to come to the theater, not just those interested in 



40 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

your subject. So, while I know there is a distinct 
place in the drama for the propaganda play, experi- 
ence does not lead me to believe the novice will write 
it. And let me again remind you — my remarks 
throughout are meant for the novice. 

The dead issue. If denied the propaganda play, 
do not go to the opposite extreme and take as your 
motive some subject or issue already settled, and 
rightly settled, to the satisfaction of the world at 
large. There are such subjects, matters in which 
justice and civilization have prevailed and which in 
their present form have become a matter of course. 
Such subjects are not for the drama unless the writer 
can drag into light some new story of the struggle 
which caused the change. Deal carefully and spar- 
ingly with the " dead issue." Do not misunderstand 
me. These subjects used as bach ground against 
which your characters love and struggle are for the 
drama or any other form of writing. It is the use 
of such subjects as theme, or motive, to which I 
am objecting. Take as a suggestive example a play 
of the American Civil War. If your play merely 
uses this period and its struggles as background and 
causation for your characters and their actions, you 
have a right to use it, though the war is over these 
many years. But if your reason for writing the play 
is to prove something about the war itself, and the 
war-story is the main theme, and the loves and strug- 
gles of your people the medium used to convey your 
arguments about the war, do you not see that a 
" dead issue " has been raised, and fought over? And 



THEME AND STORY 41 

to what purpose? I am not quoting from any par- 
ticular play, nor do I recall one written with this 
motive. But I have seen plays — in MS. — on issues 
as old and as hardly fought and finished as the play 
which I have suggested. 



CHAPTER V 
PHASES OF THE STORY 

PLANNING FOR SEQUENCE UNITIES THE SUB-PLOT 

FLIGHTS OF FANCY REALISM CONTRARY TO THE 

KNOWN FACTS BE HUMAN BE LOGICAL BE 

CONTEMPORANEOUS 

Planning for sequence. With your story forming 
itself in your mind, there is still much to be done 
before the setting forth of your idea in scenario 
form — much to be planned and digested. The story 
must be so shaped and re-shaped that events come 
in proper sequence arranged so as to take the audi- 
ence step by step to the denouement. Professor 
Adolphus William Ward says : " Every drama should 
represent in organic sequence the several stages of 
which a complete action consists, and which are es- 
sential to it. Every action, if conceived of as com- 
plete, has its causes, growth, height, consequences, 
and close." As in all rules, there are exceptions to 
this ; in the " slice of life " drama we do not con- 
ceive of the action as complete when presented, and 
frequently omit the close, in some cases even the con- 
sequences. But even in this uncertain form, the lat- 
ter should be implied or suggested ; we use our imagi- 
nation and carry the story on from the point at which 
the dramatist left his characters, guided by the sig- 

42 



PHASES OF THE STORY 43 

nificant aspects of his finale. Aristotle advised the 
tying of the knot, and then its untying ; or, in other 
words, the arising of a number of complications as 
a result of certain actions or forces, and the extri- 
cation of the characters from the consequent situa- 
tions. In the modern drama this rule is by no means 
rigidly followed, so far as a full and finished explana- 
tion is concerned. But some sort of sequence is neces- 
sary. If certain events occur, it must be because cer- 
tain other events preceded. Some of these may have 
taken place before the drama opens. If they are 
essential for the spectator's understanding, he must 
know of them. He must be told carefully, skillfully, 
disguising the fact that the writer is explaining at 
all. This is the " exposition " of which we will 
speak again. 

Unities. Aristotle also laid great stress on the 
unities — those oft-quoted unities of time, place, and 
action. Again we have a rule no longer strictly fol- 
lowed, although of late years it has been frequently 
insisted upon because of the consequent saving of 
expense in production. It is an excellent rule for the 
novice. It helps him to keep his matter in one co- 
hesive whole — a thing not easy to do without prac- 
tice. To keep the action as much as possible within 
the range of as short a time and distance as is con- 
sistent with the clear telling of the story will mate- 
rially help the writer in holding the singleness of 
motive and subject. Many plays, nowadays, cover 
a period of a few days or less, frequently within 
the hours between overture and the fall of the final 



44 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

curtain. Rarely do they require the passage of 
years between. Notice the exceptions to this: such 
plays as Rosemary, The Prince Chap, Mile-stones 
— perhaps one play of the kind in years. In all 
these plays mentioned the unusual stretch of time is 
used to present a novelty, not as a matter of course. 
Often all the action takes place within one house, 
or even one room, frequently within one city. There 
is good reason for this. One feels as if actually watch- 
ing through some magic glass scenes occurring at 
that very moment. ' A more commercial yet none the 
less potent reason enters here as to why too much 
shifting of " locale " is detrimental to the sale of 
the novice's play. Many changes of scenery will en- 
tail extra expense on the producer, added items of 
risk in the preliminary outlay. He is not to be 
blamed if he takes such things into account when 
dealing with an unknown quantity. However, write 
your practice-play all over the map — at first — so long 
as you get it written. Your bringing it together 
afterward will only add to its strength. 

Sub-plots. It has been said there must be but one 
theme, and one episode. I)y episode, I do not mean 
situation, but one plot, one " complete action." The 
sub-plot has practically disappeared from play- 
writing. If you can tell your story — prose fashion — 
simply and tersely, you will note that you have but 
one plot. Other interests, other incidents, other mat- 
ters may enter. But at the last analysis your " plot " 
needed them to carry it forward. This is the unity 
of action — the most potent, the most unyielding of the 



PHASES OF THE STORY 45 

three unities. You may defy it, if you have the 
skill. You cannot go wrong if you follow it. 

Flights of fancy. With your story well in hand, 
go over it carefully to be sure your material needs 
no overhauling. Certain flights of fancy are per- 
missible, even in everyday drama. We frequently 
do not notice a lack of plausibility, if the story is 
gripping, and arrives somewhere. This is as true 
in books as in plays. It is not unknown in criminal 
jurisprudence with clever lawyers skilled in oratory. 
However, unless writing a certain type of play with 
which we will deal later, use this license sparingly 
in these days of realism. One offense is unpardon- 
able; you must not fly in the face of known facts. 
The possible exceptions might be satire, burlesque, or 
extravaganza. 

Realism. As an instance of my meaning : in a play 
written around the American Revolution, the part de- 
signed by the author as " comic relief " was that of a 
sergeant. Now, it so happens that military tactics 
are possibly as inelastic as any rules of human con- 
duct can be. They were even more strict in those 
long-ago days of almost constant warfare between 
the nations. The character in question was a Brit- 
ish soldier, which fact would necessitate a much 
more exact discipline than that maintained over the 
raw recruits of the Continental Army. The author, 
however, ignoring all these matters known to the 
merest schoolboy, allowed the sergeant to enter, meet 
his lieutenant, who was a very minor character, al- 
most a supernumerary, in the play — but still a lieu- 



46 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

tenant in the English army — and melodramatically 
shout at him some instructions or news without salute 
or any other mark of respect. Then, turning to 
the men standing about, the sergeant gave some or- 
ders, leading them off-stage, his superior officer trail- 
ing meekly in the rear — to give the comedian the cen- 
ter of the stage! Of course, some of this was bad 
stage-direction; but, as the director was also the 
author, it is evident these omissions were the fault 
of his manuscript. Easily obtainable fact was merci- 
lessly sacrificed to a thrilling scene for the funny 
man. This play was actually produced " on the 
road " with several well-known players in the cast. 
Could the star-author-director have heard the gig- 
gling remarks of some military-school boys seated in 
the orchestra, he might have realized the importance 
of points he had not considered worth his attention. 

Always remember the chance that somewhere in 
your audience may be seated the man or woman who 
has made a special study of the subject you are treat- 
ing so ignorantly or so slightingly; no matter how 
obscure that subject may be, or how brief your ref- 
erence to it, stick to fact. To prove to you how care- 
ful is the writer who knows his business, and who 
treats it with all the seriousness it deserves : a man 
was working on a play in which he expected to intro- 
duce the character of a young officer in the United 
States Navy. This character was one of the less 
important people in the drama. Had the writer been 
the author of the Revolutionary play before men- 
tioned, he would have been satisfied to put a naval 



PHASES OF THE STORY 47 

uniform on his creation and send him adrift to make 
all kinds of " breaks " of the sort which invariably 
irritate and antagonize the Navy and its friends. 
In this case, inquiries were made everywhere as to 
the rules governing Annapolis, letters were sent to 
naval officers actually stationed on duty; nothing 
which could be discovered was ignored in the com- 
pletion of this character and the part he played in 
the story. As a result, though his " lines " in the 
play were few, he was a naval officer, the terms used 
about him and by him were correct, and no naval 
law, written or unwritten, had been transgressed. 

Contrary to known facts. A novice's play had a 
duel scene between two officers in the United States 
Army of to-day. Not once in the play was mention 
made of the fact that dueling is absolutely against 
both the laws of the country and the code of the 
Army. If two American soldiers were to fight a 
bona fide duel, the fact of their so far transgressing 
law and order would be situation enough to make 
a play in itself. But to ignore it as transgression 
is bad writing, whether in story or play. 

Be human. There are mental phases, psychological 
aspects, which must at least be human. In a very 
bad play read a little while ago, a shocking murder 
was committed and afterward described by the prin- 
cipal character. Nowhere in the entire course of the 
drama did that character or any other in the cast 
display the least horror, amazement, regret, or re- 
morse. Had he stolen a loaf of bread and devoted 
three acts to his efforts to escape ten days in the 



48 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

lock-up, his associates could not have been more cal- 
lous to his action. And they were supposedly people 
of breeding and education! At least, the author 
said so. 

Be logical. In other words, be logical. It would 
seem almost unbelievable that errors like the exam- 
ples given could occur. Yet would-be writers, de- 
manding a public, make them constantly. Do not let 
the seeming harshness of this statement daunt you 
or turn you back ; if you have really something to say, 
you will not be stopped so easily. It is better to make 
mistakes than to make nothing. Mistakes can be 
corrected ; nothing merely remains zero. " If one is 
afraid of being proved wrong, one will never do 
right." The perfect play, flawless as to structure, 
plot, design, and presentation, has yet to be writ- 
ten. I do not know that I want to see it when it is. 
Perfection is somehow chilling. A musical composi- 
tion can be erected from a certain series of notes 
by following the laws of Harmony and Thorough- 
bass. But who would care to hear it unless the com- 
poser had more in his soul than just those notes and 
the law! 

Paul Armstrong, the dramatist, sums it up rather 
well : " Play-writing is half -instinct and half- 
experience. One must first have a story which he can 
tell across a table inside of ten minutes. If he can 
tell it in five all the better. The story must have to 
do with human beings. Somebody must be in danger 
of something, that somebody may be saved from 
something. I do not mean a saw-mill or hanging — 



PHASES OF THE STORY 49 

the loss of one single person's faith may be enough, 
but someone must be saved." 

As to any set formula, listen to David Belasco: 
" The formula of play-writing changes every season. 
Year by year the dramatist is allowed less license. 
His skill must be greater than that of the ' veteran 
dramatist,' for we have advanced with the years 
and no longer accept that which once seemed plausi- 
ble. The new dramatist is forced to move far in 
advance of the old, to get nearer to the truth, to 
the facts of life." 

Be contemporaneous. Whatever your theme, it is 
best that your story should be contemporaneous. It 
will be, if you follow advice, and write only of such 
things and people as you yourself can understand 
and properly present. The reason is far-reaching. 
The " great American drama " will be of more value 
both as a description and comment to present and 
future Americans than any play, however well 
conceived and written, which deals with past, distant, 
or symbolical events. 



CHAPTER VI 

THE " CLOSET " DRAMA 

a digression the printed page and the acted 

play aiming at one art by means of another 

underestimating the dignity of the work 

Arnold Bennett's remarks — Bernard shaw — 

literature in the theater henry arthur 

jones' rules a forced classification play 

publication 

A digression. In touching on the play written to 
be read and not to be acted we are dealing with a 
subject which is not only a digression at this point, 
but also a very real " digression " in play-writing. It 
is a matter upon which there are several opinions, 
and plays in manuscript frequently reach the critic 
which are frankly only for the publisher and not for 
the theater. Sir Adolphus William Ward, in the 
Encyclopedia Britannica, expresses it forcibly: 
" Though the term literary drama is sometimes used 
of works kept apart from the stage, it is in truth 
a misnomer, since, properly speaking, no drama is 
such until it is acted." 

The insistence upon this " misnomer's "right to live 
comes usually from those writers who have attracted 
our attention by their ability in other fields, but 
who profess, more or less, to despise the drama as 

50 



THE " CLOSET " DRAMA 51 

a sort of by-path or sidetrack of literary art, in- 
stead of the " highest and most difficult form of lit- 
erature," as Henry Arthur Jones calls it. They de- 
sire to reach their public through the medium usual 
to themselves — the printed page, and propose to 
ignore the only complete medium of the drama — 
the theater. It cannot be done. 

The printed page and the acted play. In a book, 
all that stands between a man and his public is the 
print. To insure a reading, the writer can pay for 
publication and give the whole edition away. A play 
is meant to be acted. The very word drama is from 
the Greek, Drao, to act, to do. The word Play also 
implies action. Therefore, even though the dramatist 
may have the desire to spend his money, he is com- 
pelled to consider several things before his play goes 
on. In a different way, he can follow the novelist's 
example — rent a theater from a complacent manager, 
pay all expenses, and invite his audiences. But be- 
tween himself and . the spectator is something more 
vital than the printed page — the whole mechanism of 
the theater: stage, actors, lights, scenic effects. If 
his material is not susceptible of such rendition 
through such mediums, of what use all the high- 
sounding phrases of a Doctor Johnson or the pointed 
wit of a Talleyrand! Yet there are people, other- 
wise cultured, who think writing a play means put- 
ting lengthy dialogue down on paper, ignoring com- 
pletely this connecting link between author and pub- 
lic. A play, properly speaking, is not a play in its 
fullest expression until it has been acted; just as a 



52 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

book is not entirely a book until it is in shape to be 
read. 

The written description of any scene at which one 
is meant to look always falls short of the actual 
presentation of this silent moment as shown in the 
theater. There are bits of pantomime in the acted 
play which no description ever equaled, when such 
scenes are rendered with all the skill of the finished 
actor, assisted by adequate surroundings. When 
you write for the theater, you write for eyes and 
ears — the onlooker who sees and not the reader who 
visualizes for himself. There is a vast difference. 

Many well-known writers have tried to uphold the 
closet drama as a part of dramatic literature; but, 
though it may be " literature," an author has no more 
real right to use the play-form for unactable plays 
than has a writer in prose to declare his compositions 
poetry however poetic the ideas may be. An engine 
built for any other than the presupposed use of 
engines is really a waste of materials and human 
energy, since an engine is only an assembled mass of 
various metals, until it is capable of being put to 
use. If it cannot " go," of what use is it? 

Aiming at one art by means of another. Let me 
quote from Drama and Life, by A. B. Walkley, the 
dramatic critic of the London Times : " Mr. Hardy 
(i.e., Thomas Hardy) boldly champions the cause of 
unplayable plays. To the question, why, if you are 
writing a narrative to be read, forego all the privi- 
leges of narrative art and hamper yourself by the 
restrictions proper to a spectacle, Mr. Hardy an- 



THE " CLOSET " DRAMA 53 

swers that is the artist's affair, and he has a right 
to his caprice, and the * artistic spirit ' at bottom 
is a ' spirit of caprice.' . . . This particular caprice 
of aiming by the medium of one art at the pleas- 
ure proper to another is as noxious as it is popular." 

To show just how popular this " noxious " habit is, 
an anecdote related in an article in the National 
Review, by the late Charles H. E. Brookfield, Eng- 
lish Censor of Plays, will be amusing : " Many years 
ago I was approached by an elderly Oxford pro- 
fessor with a packet of MS. under his arm. He con- 
fided to me that his health had some time before 
broken completely down through overwork. ' My 
medical advisers,' he said, 4 ordered me to give my 
mind a thorough holiday; the most trifling exertion, 
they said, might result in meningitis. So I deter- 
mined to give my brain a complete rest and I've been 
whiling away the time by — er — by writing a play.' 
I read his MS. and I saw no reason to doubt that 
he had conscientiously carried out his physicians' 
instructions ; that is to say, the play he had put to- 
gether betrayed no signs of any intellectual exer- 
tion whatever. But I am afraid it was never pro- 
duced." Mr. Brookfield continued : " The most bril- 
liant writer of our generation — Robert Louis Steven- 
son, who was endowed with almost every gift that 
a dramatist needs — humor, imagination, knowledge 
of humankind, knowledge of effect, characterization, 
and the power of writing beautiful dialogue — who 
ought to have enriched our stage with many mag- 
nificent plays, who made several attempts — was en- 



54. WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

tirely unsuccessful in these efforts through under- 
estimating the dignity of the work he was under- 
taking. . . . Stevenson is not by any means the only 
illustrious man of letters who has tried in vain to 
woo the drama in this amused, affectionately patroniz- 
ing spirit. I remember how Besant's kindly eyes used 
to sparkle roguishly behind his spectacles whenever 
he talked of play-writing; he seemed to look at it 
as a larky recreation akin to riding on a roundabout 
on Hampstead Heath." 

" It is impossible for anyone, however clever he 
may be, to write acceptable work with his tongue 
in his cheek." This disposition on the part of many 
of the writers of fiction explains why, with a few 
exceptions, they have been only moderately, if at 
all, successful as playwrights. And it yet remains 
to be seen whether the works of those attaining some 
measure of success because of their wit and clever- 
ness will outlast the lives of their popular authors. 

The most obscure workman in the engine-room 
has a right to express an opinion regarding his 
machinery before even the most brilliant of theorists. 
No actor who has ever worked in a play, no director 
who has ever staged one, is therefore to be consid- 
ered incompetent to judge whether play-construction 
is the amusing game which some of our cleverest sa- 
tirists claim it is ; or whether it is the art dignified by 
such names as Shakespeare, Moliere, Ibsen, and the 
rest, as workers in the theater believe. For that reason 
it may be interesting to set forth some of the opinions 
of these satirists. Arnold Bennett, whose novels are 



THE "CLOSET" DRAMA 55 

always a delight to the appreciative reader, says in 
The Truth About an Author: " I have not spoken of 
the artistic side of this play-concoction, because it 
scarcely has any. . . . How our princes of the dra- 
matic kingdom can contrive to spend two years over 
a single piece, as they say they do, I cannot imagine. 
... I say that dramatic composition for the market 
is child's play compared to the writing of decent 
average fiction — provided one has an instinct for 
stage effect." The italics are mine; note well that 
provision, since it is important, though Mr. Bennett 
dismisses it so carelessly. And any writer who starts 
out with the idea that play-writing is child's play, 
will, in the vernacular, " get all that's coming to 
him." That a dramatist can spend two years over 
one piece is true, and even more time than that would 
describe the preparation and revision of some. The 
point is that they are dramatists. 

Bernard Shaw. Bernard Shaw, in his upholding 
of the so-called " literary drama," takes his fling 
at the actor instead of the dramatist : " A c literary 
play,' I should explain, is a play that the actors 
have to act in opposition to the ' acting play ' which 
acts them." This is truer than Mr. Shaw meant it 
to be, and in a different way; many a literary play 
would be an impossible mixture did not the actors 
give it a semblance of drama by putting their best 
efforts into it, while the " acting play," written for 
the actual stage — as Shakespeare wrote — with due 
consideration for and knowledge of its mechanism, 
its limitations, its effects, and its medium of expres- 



56 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

sion, acts itself, in a measure, because all of the 
pieces dovetail, and the players have characters to 
portray, not phonographic automatons. However, 
Norman Hapgood says of this most delightful of 
jesters: "The greater part of his life is devoted 
to proving that things ought to be done some other 
way." 

Another statement of Mr. Bennett's shows even 
more clearly the attitude of the average novelist to 
the difficulties of play-construction. " Writing is a 
question of words." Is it? Let us see. Some of 
the most telling, most effective scenes in the drama 
are simple pantomime, depending on the actor's in- 
terpretation and dramatic ability and not on any 
dialogue of the author, though the author's directions 
give him his cue. The success of the motion-picture 
play proves that it is possible to tell a straight- 
forward, dramatic story without the aid of words, 
or with only an occasional sub-title or " leader." In 
the drama a significant action, gesture, or facial ex- 
pression is far more suggestive of the contributing 
emotion than the paragraph in the manuscript in 
which the dramatist describes such action for the 
instruction of actor and stage-director. In no place 
do actions speak louder than words more effectually 
than in the drama ; the man who tries to make a play 
out of " words " will find himself on the highway 
of " writing," but, Mr. Bennett to the contrary, it 
will not be " ^Za^-writing." Some of the more recent 
sayings of this writer on the subject of the play are 
both dangerous and misleading to the beginner; dan- 



THE " CLOSET " DRAMA 57 

gerous, because of his high literary standing, which 
tends to place him in the position of an authority, 
and misleading, because wide of the facts of the 
case. 

Literature in the theater. Literature in the mod- 
ern theater is not the impossibility these cavilers would 
seem to think. The point is that writers of the 
drama of each epoch were quite unconscious they were 
writing " literature." Posterity made the decision 
for them. They wrote because writing was their 
medium of expression; they wrote for the theater 
because the theater could use their plays, and the 
public liked them. To-day the litterateur, separating 
himself from the dramatist in self-conscious superi- 
ority, writes in a form which he does not understand, 
and which he disdains to study. When, however, the 
dramatist knows his form, and is gifted besides with 
imagination and inspiration, a successful play is 
the result. That it happens to be literature as well 
is because of this happy combination of skill and 
genius. The Servant in the House and The Blue 
Bird are usually termed literature by many of our 
best critics, though there is, here and there, the dis- 
sentient voice in regard to both. The personal equa- 
tion enters here as elsewhere. Both were successful 
plays from the theatrical standpoint. Also both 
Charles Rann Kennedy and Maeterlinck know the 
theater intimately, actively. It is this active intimacy 
which seems to count for so little among fiction 
writers. 

The writer who insists on the " literary " play for 



58 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

the stage is in much the same position as the writer 
of the play meant solely for publication. Literary 
plays and dramatic literature are two very different 
things. The first insists on fine writing, as such, 
which, oddly enough, sounds merely didactic when 
spoken. And remember, the literary play for the 
stage must be rendered aloud by living actors be- 
fore an audience just as must a play by the most 
ordinary craftsman. Public readers who interpret 
for our pleasure the great novels and poems of the 
masters are compelled to give due regard to a lis- 
tening audience; they are forced to make extensive 
cuts and bridge many gaps by a few short sentences. 
Even if the author desires stage production for his 
effort, the literary play, in itself, is not much better 
than the purely closet drama. Because, even if it 
is capable of presentation by actors in a theater, 
the audience has been ignored. The play of this 
stamp is simply not dramatic. It is only dialogue, 
no matter how well written: in the same class with 
those " pieces " three or four of us used to recite 
at school entertainments, capable of being rendered 
aloud from a platform, but not dramatic because lack- 
ing in the first requisite of the theater — entertainment 
for an audience. " Fine writing " in the theater is 
not necessarily undesirable, but it must be backed by 
craftsmanship and conform as completely to the laws 
of entertainment as must the play of the merest " pot- 
boiler." 

The way to bring literature to the stage is not 
by way of the closet-drama, which is merely a mis- 



THE " CLOSET " DRAMA 59 

taken effort to bring the stage to literature. Nor 
is it to be done by way of the revivals of old literary 
dramas and dramatic forms, but rather along modern 
lines of realism, or the love of the unusual and the 
mystical. " If there is any literary drama, it is the 
drama our contemporaries are laughing at, or cry- 
ing over, or declaring is a true picture of their 
lives," says Walter Pritchard Eaton. Revivals of 
old forms — let us confess it — are 'apt to bore any but 
scholars, and deaden even more effectually the desire 
for literary drama in those ordinary playgoers who 
pay for their seats and fill the box-office treasury. 
Many insist that the old forms are best; and occa- 
sionally when one hears the rounded periods and 
sonorous rhythm of one of the old dramas, one feels 
inclined to agree. But with the changes in the stage, 
and the evolution of theatrical machinery these meth- 
ods have grown more and more unnatural. 

Therefore, though for one reason or another your 
composition may never see the footlights, write it 
as if you expected it to be produced and acted im- 
mediately. 

Henry Arthur Jones' rules. Henry Arthur Jones, 
in his latest publication, The Foundations of a Na- 
tional Drama, half seriously, half humorously makes 
the following list of rules for " Dramatic Literature " 
on the modern stage : 

" 1. The writer must have some natural instinct 
for the stage, some inborn gifts for the theater. 

" 2. He must patiently learn the technique of the 
stage. 



60 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

" 3. His literature must inform a strong, moving, 
universal story. 

" 4. His literature must be so broad and human 
that it can be instantly apprehended and digested 
by the boys in the gallery. 

" 5. His literature must be so subtle and delicate 
that it will tickle the palates of literary critics in the 
stalls. 

" 6. His literature — in a play of modern life — 
must be of that supreme quality which is constantly 
and naturally spoken by all classes of English men 
and women in everyday life ; it must be obviously and 
frankly colloquial. 

" 7. His literature must exactly fit the mouths, 
and persons, and manners, and training of the va- 
rious members of the company who are to deliver it. 

" 8. His literature must be of that kind which will 
immediately bring at least eight hundred pounds a 
week to the box-office." 

A forced classification. Please do not, I beg of 
you, misunderstand the position taken by those who 
so strenuously object to the " unactable " play. 
There is no intention to decry, as literature, any 
of the great poetic dialogues. Literature of a high 
order they most certainly are. But " literature of 
the theater " they are not, however beautiful their 
form and language. I repeat, these strictures are 
directed solely against the writer who composes a 
" drama " in which he either deliberately or ignorantly 
ignores the stage, and writes solely for the eyes of 
the reader. 






THE " CLOSET " DRAMA 61 

There is, unfortunately, a very fine class of real 
drama which, in the United States, might be called by 
the unthinking, " Closet-Drama." But it is a forced 
and not a real classification. It was written for 
the theater, is capable of practical theatrical presen- 
tation, and because of a manager's timidity or lack 
of initiative, or a public's lack of dramatic educa- 
tion or knowledge that there is another kind of play 
to be had than those they are cpmpelled to witness, 
is still to be had only in book-form. But more and 
more of these plays are reaching their ultimate, the 
stage, through the efforts of private enterprise and 
special audiences. Fortunately, the reading of pub- 
lished plays is on the increase. And with the entrance 
into book-form of real dramatic literature, there 
will be less and less ignoring of dramatic ethics on 
the part of writers unwilling to see where the dif- 
ference lies. 

Plays, real plays, should be published. It amounts 
to a duty for managers, playwrights, and publish- 
ers, to see that they are. To say nothing of the 
advantages of founding a permanent dramatic lit- 
erature in America, it will be of the greatest service 
not only to the student, but to the playgoer who 
for any reason has been unable to see any particular 
play. The theater is a very general topic of con- 
versation; being able to read a play will certainly 
add to the intelligence and enjoyment of such dis- 
cussion. 



CHAPTER VII 
TECHNIQUE 

DIFFICULT TO DEFINE RULE ONE: KNOWLEDGE OF 

THE THEATER RULE TWO: THE PLOT PRELIMI- 
NARY MENTAL PROCESS SCENARIO UNITY OF THE 

PLOT THE REASONS SCOPE OF THEATRICAL PRES- 
ENTATION ICONOCLASTIC INCLINATION READING 

THE PLAY TO FRIENDS STORY TOLD BY MEANS OF 

PLAYERS AND STAGE-SETTING STAGE-TRICKS 

TECHNICAL PERFECTION GOOD SENSE 

Difficult to define. The technique of an art which 
differs so widely in treatment and expression under 
the hands of its various exponents is difficult to de- 
fine. Any instructions on play-building must .neces- 
sarily contain a number of rules of what not to do, 
though some writers on the subject feel such negative 
instruction hardly worth while. Rules of any kind 
fall into their proper place when one has mastered 
an art; for the novice, obedience to rules is a help 
and a safeguard. 

Rule one. Knowledge of the theater. Before 
starting to write your play, inform yourself on all 
those matters included in the theater, some of which 
I have already mentioned. This might be called 
Rule One. Henry Arthur Jones said in an inter- 
view, when asked why so few tyros proved themselves 

62 



TECHNIQUE 63 

worthy of the managerial welcome : " Because they 
are so ignorant of the task they impose upon them- 
selves. Dramatic writing is more beset with diffi- 
culties than is any other form of authorship imag- 
inable. Nevertheless, the amateur rushes boldly in 
and storms the managerial office, before he has mas- 
tered the very rudiments of his craft. Nobody starts 
to build a house without a course of previous train- 
ing, yet hundreds of people start to write plays with 
no better acquaintance with the details of play- 
construction than a man might gain of house-con- 
struction in a few casual glances at the outside of 
one." Lewis Waller, the well-known English actor, 
adds to this : " There is a technique of the theater, 
a technique of play-writing and acting that can only 
be acquired by laborious experience." If you can 
write plays, if you are really an embryo dramatist, 
you will not write just the one play which has 
set you searching books, and rules, and theaters, 
but another, and another, until you know your 
work. 

I will add one more quotation at this point, be- 
cause it comes from a woman who conducts one of 
the largest play-bureaus in America, and who in her 
reading of thousands of MSS. from almost every 
city, town, and village in the country is peculiarly fit- 
ted to judge how much both the preceding quotations 
are needed, and how little they are heeded. Eliza- 
beth Marbury says : " Lack of technique is the diffi- 
culty with many of the American playwrights. It 
is not that they cannot master it, but either they 



64 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

think they have it as a gift needing no cultivation, or 
that it is not worth while." 

A definition. Technique, in the dictionary, is de^ 
scribed as the manner of artistic performance. For 
instance, in piano playing, technique includes the 
ability to rapidly transfer, through the eyes, brain, 
and fingers, the notes of the musical composition to 
the keyboard: the knowledge of the correct position 
of the hands, the skill of the finger movements, the 
complete acquaintance with every sign and symbol 
of expression marked in the score. All of this is 
purely mechanical and is acquired as the result of 
hour upon hour of actual labor. Not one of these 
matters is ignored by a Paderewski or a Carreno, any 
more than by the plodding student. The difference 
in the resulting performance is dependent on three 
things — work, temperament, and individuality. 

The technique of play-writing is not so literally 
set down. Except for the medium, there is no defi- 
nite standard. Yet, as in music, we have the ability 
to transcribe the life we see and know into the life 
we put on the stage, the knowledge of the correct 
way of going to work, the skill with which the work 
is done, the acquaintance with all the signs and me- 
chanics of the theater. 

A dangerous half-truth. Certain playwrights who 
have in a manner " arrived " will airily affirm : " Have 
a good story, a good plot, and technique will take 
care of itself." It is a careless and dangerous say- 
ing to present to the laity because only half a truth. 
It is like saying: Speak the language, and rules 






TECHNIQUE 65 

of grammar will take care of themselves. Of course 
they will, once they have become a part of one's 
subconscious processes. Writers who make such care- 
less statements forget the period in which they 
learned or unconsciously absorbed the rules. Per- 
haps a large part of the technique of the theater is 
a technique which its most successful exponents have 
taken in so unconsciously and gradually as hardly 
to realize there is such a thing. ( But this can be true 
only of those writers who in some way or other know 
the theater. When a playwright makes both state- 
ments — that technique takes care of itself, and a 
knowledge of the theater is unnecessary, as one play- 
wright did not long ago — he confesses himself one 
who is unconscious of how much of this knowledge 
he actually possesses, because he has never tried to 
give it a name, and because he learned it all with- 
out knowing he had done so. The trouble with the 
writers who make this statement seems to be that 
they use the word technique as if it meant a formula 
or a recipe. A formula no more makes a playwright 
than a cook-book creates a chef. 

Rule two. The story. In the chapters relating 
to the story, we had something to say of the ability 
to transfer the lives around us to the stage. There- 
fore, this would be the next rule or requisite: have 
your story clear in your mind before you start to 
work. Mr. Archer says there are no rules for writ- 
ing a play; in a strict sense this is true. Yet, as 
you see, rules of a kind there are, which are part 
of this matter of technique. Two have already been 



66 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

formulated, the second of which is: have a definite 
tale to tell. You cannot start a play without, though 
some people try. 

Preliminary thinking. In a recent symposium 
held in a leading New York paper, nine well-known 
dramatists gave their methods of procedure. These 
varied with the individuality and temperament of the 
writers. But on one point they were all agreed: the 
importance of the clearness of the plot or story be- 
fore beginning the actual work of writing the play. 
In some cases this was allowed to roll around in the 
brain for a year before any writing was done, be- 
yond, perhaps, the entries made in some note-book 
to help the memory until the entire matter was 
formulated. Sometimes a certain character sug- 
gested the story in which he was to move ; at others, 
the story brought a troop of characters marching 
and counter-marching, some to stay and grow, others 
to fade out and be rejected. But this preliminary 
mental process seemed to preface the work of all 
of them. 

This method, however, is not so easy to the un- 
practiced novice. All these writers were trained by 
experience, and able to hold a story in mind, to digest 
it, as it were, and then start to work with a fairly 
clear idea of the resulting scenario. One writer of 
the nine went so far as to absolutely repudiate a writ- 
ten scenario. But he has the gift of being able to 
hold his mental story very clearly : " Before I actu- 
ally begin to write a play my characters are so real 
to me that I know what they look like, what their 



TECHNIQUE 67 

voices sound like, what sort of clothes they wear, 
where they stand or sit as they say or do what I make 
them say or do." 

Scenario. It is to help the novice make his story 
real, his characters alive, that I have suggested the 
writing of the episode as a story in prose. Some- 
times one is unaware how slim a narrative he is 
preparing to dramatize until he presents it to him- 
self in this way. The story of a very poor four-act 
drama read in manuscript was briefly summarized by 
the critic thus : a clergyman was in love with a mar- 
ried woman, though he had never told her and she 
did not suspect. Before the end of the first act, 
the husband was killed in an accident, off-stage. She 
promised to marry the clergyman in Act Four. That 
was all. There were no obstacles, no complications, 
no plot; certainly, there was no theme. Had the 
writer put it all down on paper, he could not have 
helped but note the futility of his story. That the 
original situation held possibilities of drama he either 
had not noticed or had ignored, as was shown by his 
so early and easily putting the husband out of the 
way. 

Unity of plot: rule three. The next feature of 
play-technique is the " one-ness," the unity, of the 
plot. Unity of time and place are frequently 
set aside; the unity of action, the singleness of 
episode is steadily growing more and more of an 
exaction. 

In a modern drama, every character, every situa- 
tion and complication, every line of the dialogue 



68 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

must deal with this one plot. There are no cunning 
little by-paths leading nowhere. All must lead up 
to that final curtain by gradual, inevitable degrees — 
a succession of dramatic actions or incidents mov- 
ing definitely forward to the climax. 

Reasons. There must be a reason for every per- 
son, line, and situation in your play ; this point can- 
not be too much emphasized. Remembering it will 
stop you when you are inclined to permit your char- 
acters to do unnecessary things. Suppose, for ex- 
ample, you want to get a certain character off the 
stage so that certain other characters may be in 
a position for a scene which the first person must 
not hear. He must have a reason for leaving which 
will be apparent or obvious to the audience; he can- 
not wander aimlessly out. He does not necessarily 
have to say anything in explanation; he may be just 
a servant going about his duties, or a guest follow- 
ing others to another room to smoke, or play cards, 
or speak to someone : anything, so long as there is a 
legitimate reason, spoken or implied, for him to 
exit. 

From ancient Greece comes down the dictum, 
which good taste has seen no reason to change. It 
is strikingly true of play-writing to-day. Thus 
Aristotle : " The fable, since it is an imitation action, 
should be the imitation of one action, and of the 
whole of this, and that the parts of the transactions 
should be so arranged that any one of them being 
transposed or taken away, the whole would become 
different and changed. For that which when present 



TECHNIQUE 69 

or not present produces no sensible difference is not 
a part of the fabric." 

Scope of theatrical presentation. You must keep 
your actions — the crimes, or accidents, or happen- 
ings — within the scope of theatrical presentation. 
Percy Mackaye speaks of this as writing a practical 
play : i.e., " A play likely to be produced." Wonder- 
ful things are done in stagecraft in these days of 
mechanical device, but it is as well for the novice to 
wait for some experience in his art before writing 
a play which would practically require the recon- 
struction of all that part of the house back of the 
curtain. It takes skill to put unusual situations into 
their proper place in a play. The manager always 
feels he is taking a chance with the unknown writer; 
if to this chance be added unnecessary expense for 
unusual scenic contrivances, he is not exactly to be 
blamed for refusing to take the risk. 

Iconoclastic inclination. To have daring ideas, 
iconoclastic inclination, may make for striking orig- 
inality, but go slowly until you have mastered some- 
thing of your medium. The two Richards — Wagner 
and Strauss — invented new instruments for new 
tones, but they thoroughly understood the old ones. 
You may become great enough to smash old methods, 
but you must first pass through the school. Wagner 
wrote Rienzi, on old accepted lines, long before, 
in Parsifal, he brought the leit-motif to perfec- 
tion. The great sometimes disregard technique, in 
all the arts. It is not well, in writing for the theater, 
to go too far in this iconoclasm, else you will find 



70 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

yourself at odds with all the paraphernalia included 
within the theater's four walls. As artist, architect, 
and sculptor passed through the schools of art to 
acquire the knowledge necessary for the use of their 
tools, so must musician, actor, and playwright pass 
through the schools of practice and experience be- 
fore using their tools. 

You say, very properly, that the fact of your situ- 
ation being unusual should be in its favor, since I 
have already advocated novelty. I am merely ad- 
vising letting such situations alone until you are 
sure that you — and the stage-director — can handle 
them. Write your play, not once, but dozens of 
times, if need be. Put it away for a while ; give your- 
self time to forget it a little, then go at it again. 
Artists in painting and illustrating know the value 
of this method. Mistakes you had not noticed, or had 
glossed over in the fever of writing, will shriek at 
you from the pages. 

Reading the play to friends. Another word of 
warning might just as well find its place here, since 
the practice actually retards the grasp of technique 
and delays the day of real accomplishment. Do not 
be in haste to read your play to friends and ad- 
mirers the moment you have written the final words 
of your last scene in your first transcript. Better 
read it to an enemy: you will be more likely to 
get criticism worth while. If you are so fortunate 
as to number among your friends someone connected 
with the theater who is honest enough to tell you 
the truth, as he sees it, you will be really helped, 



TECHNIQUE 71 

even if the remarks are caustic. I know of nothing 
more pernicious in its effect on the amateur writer 
than the habit, so prevalent, of reading a first play 
to an invited group of non-theatrical, non-literary 
friends. A practiced writer may receive valuable 
criticism from an " outsider," though the latter's 
remarks are delivered without consciousness of the 
train of thought they may evoke in the author. And 
sometimes after an amateur has Had expert opinion, 
a remark from someone else may chance to be of 
value. But no amateur ever received valuable or 
practical criticism from such an audience as I have 
described — chiefly for the reason that it takes cer- 
tain faculties to listen to a play intelligently. If 
one lacks, for instance, the power of " staging " or 
picturing a play in action as he listens to the read- 
ing of it in a drawing-room, your effort is wasted. 
And this picture-making faculty is not given to 
everyone. 

How the story is told : rule four. Another sign 
of an expert in technique is the ability with which he 
causes his story to be simply and clearly told by the 
players and the stage-setting, without one unneces- 
sary word or obtrusion from the author. Wherever 
we are made to feel that the writer is himself speak- 
ing, it is because of faulty construction. The illu- 
sion that the actors are in truth the characters they 
aim to portray and that these characters alone are 
speaking, must be held in the minds of the audience. 
If it is not, it may be the actor's fault; it should 
never be the author's. There is but one way in 



72 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

which the dramatist can identify himself with the 
play: he can make one of his characters a photo- 
graphic representation of himself. Otherwise if a 
character stops being John Smith for a few mo- 
ments so that the author may launch some views 
which may have to do with the play, but which have 
no real relation to John Smith, it is bad character- 
drawing if it is nothing else. Bernard Shaw stops 
the entire action of Fanny's First Play to let a 
French officer deliver a lengthy speech about Eng- 
lishwomen. But, with Shaw's plays, it so happens 
that his admirers are more interested in him than 
in any of his characters, so perhaps he may be par- 
doned the transgression. 

Stage-tricks. We often speak of stage-tricks. 
Perhaps mention of these is out of place in a book 
intended for novices, for the simple reason that it 
takes an experienced craftsman to make use of a 
trick in writing or stage-direction. In the hands of 
the beginner the usage is apt to stand out glaringly 
from the rest of the drama. As a warning, however, 
the mention is not inept. There are many such 
tricks ; they are only obvious as " tricks " when they 
are unnatural, plainly theatrical. A clever stage- 
trick, utilized naturally and properly, has its dra- 
matic uses. 

Tricks of other days have been steadily and gradu- 
ally forced out of the drama because they have been 
caused generally by the intrusions of the author in 
prologues, epilogues, and other explanatory matter. 
The monologue is an old theatrical trick discarded 



TECHNIQUE 73 

because of its unnaturalness. A clever, legitimate 
trick, which told without words and in the briefest 
space of time something the dramatist wished us to 
known at once, was shown in the first act finale of 
Phroso, dramatized from the Anthony Hope novel. 
Lord Wheatley has had a short scene with his fiancee, 
with whom he has imagined himself very much in 
love. She has given him a rose, which he puts in 
his coat. Later he has a scene with the tempestuous 
Greek beauty, the Lady Euphrosyne, who stabs his 
hand with her dagger. At the end of the act, as 
the Greek is passing across a gallery at the back 
of the stage, Lord Wheatley takes the rose from 
his coat and half unconsciously smells it. Euphros- 
yne, or Phroso, turns suddenly and leans over the 
gallery to say softly, " My lord, I am — sorry — for 
that," pointing to his wounded hand. His back is 
to the audience, his arm has dropped to his side at 
her first words, the rose dangling from his fingers. 
As Phroso finishes her speech and turns, passing 
along the gallery to her room, Lord Wheatley, with 
lifted head, follows her movement, still standing 
in the same position. There is no sign of any 
emotion on the part of either player; but — the for- 
gotten rose falls slowly from his fingers to the stage, 
as the curtain descends. That is all. Could a long, 
rapturous speech on his part have told us any more, 
or with half the effect? Said Mr. Brookfield: "No 
one can afford to dispense with the c tricks of the 
trade.' But the artist must learn to practice them 
so skillfully that the audience are beguiled into think- 



74 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

ing their effects are produced by entirely new and 
original means." 

Technical perfection. With all that has been said 
both here and elsewhere about technique in play- 
writing, remember always that mere technical per- 
fection in any art is empty. The great teachers of 
music and painting have sometimes been inferior 
performers. A play built up of theatrical tradi- 
tions, stage-tricks, and dramatic formalism will not 
be a great play. But the writing of such a play 
by the student should be a help to him in learning 
something of the work before him. Do not be afraid 
of technique as something either too difficult to grasp 
or too hampering on originality. Master it — do not 
let it master you. 

Good sense. Though the following is written of 
prose composition, it is so plainly pertinent to the 
subject under discussion that it makes a most fit- 
ting close to this matter of technique: 

" No principle of composition is anywhere abso- 
lute ; . . . the finest art is imperceptible. . . . Prin- 
ciple is not rule; it is a guide, not a master. To 
neglect it is to go astray; to follow it blindly is to 
know not where you are. Above all principle, above 
all else, the deepest secret of all fine art is fine good 
sense." * 

* English Composition, Barrett Wendell. 



CHAPTER VIII 
THE CHARACTERS 

CLEARNESS ATTRIBUTES COMPLEXITY ELTMINA- 

TION OF A CHARACTER UNMANAGEABLE CHARAC- 
TERS RELATION TO THE PLOT RELATION TO 

EACH OTHER THE CONFIDANT " THE SPY " 

" THE NEW SIN " IRRITATING PERSONALITY IN- 
TRODUCTION OF NEW CHARACTERS CHARACTERS 

SUITED TO THE ACTIONS THEY MUST COMMIT 

GENEALOGY OF IMAGINARY CHARACTERS CHARAC- 
TER DESCRIPTIONS IN THE PLAY CHARACTER 

NAMES UNUSUAL CHARACTERIZATIONS STRAIGHT 

PARTS CHARACTER PARTS CHARACTER CHANGES 

Having settled on your story, you must now deter- 
mine how many and what characters will be necessary 
to tell it. The fewer characters used, the better; 
the reasons, of which there are several, will present 
themselves from time to time in later chapters, when 
we discuss the different phases of composition. 

Clearness. " The portrayal of a human character 
is the highest achievement of which any artist is 
capable," says Henry Arthur Jones. No better text 
could be found for this chapter. Each character, 
therefore, must be fairly clear in your mind before 
starting your play. If, by the time it is finished, you 
do not feel that these are living people whom you 

75 



76 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

have grown to know intimately, you have failed in 
characterization. During the preliminary process of 
thinking and planning, of plotting story and scena- 
rio, even in the actual writing of the dialogue, they 
have a way of growing and changing under one's 
hand. In the end they must be clean-cut. Since very 
human actors must portray them, the nearer your 
creations come to clear definition, the better chances 
for correct rendition your play will have. In a story 
you can explain your characters at length or in a 
few paragraphs ; in a play, the actor must do it for 
you with what you give him to do and say. 

Attributes. In a way, character delineation can 
never be microscopic in the play. Just as a portrait 
portrays the sitter in one mood, the character draw- 
ing in a play touches only those points of the per- 
sonality which concern the story. In real life no 
bad man is always thinking wicked thoughts or plan- 
ning worse acts, nor is every good man always above 
reproach. We are neither angels nor devils. But in 
the play it serves our purpose better to use just 
those sides of a personality which will present the 
action without confusion either in delineation or com- 
prehension. We are dealing with some particular 
crisis in the life of an imagined personality. Art 
demands therefore that we show, not the whole of 
that character's possibilities in every phase of exist- 
ence from dawn to dark, but only those characteris- 
tics which are consistent with our story and its pres- 
entation. In handling a first play, it is easier to 
make the people in it entirely simple in delineation 



THE CHARACTERS 77 

as in the old days when hero and villain, heroine and 
adventuress never deviated for a moment from their 
virtue or wickedness, as the case might be. Even 
in plays of these latter days, though the characters 
more nearly conform to the ordinary traits of normal 
human beings, the several attributes which brought 
the characters into the story are clearly marked. 
Sometimes this is overdone to the point of creating 
types rather than human beings. Since no one is 
entirely true to any one type, such character draw- 
ings, no matter how witty or charming the lines 
given the personalities, show up on the stage, when 
acted, as unnatural, sometimes exaggerated almost 
to the allegorical. Consistency is much, but it must 
not be carried to the point of mannerism. 

Complexity. If I may seem paradoxical, even a 
complex character must be consistently complex. 
And, as they are sure to stand out in a performance, 
the complex characters must usually be the more 
important ones; as an actor would express it, there 
is so much " meat " in them. Many a dramatist has 
found a character which he considered unimportant 
running away with his play because the actor found 
it so worthy of his best efforts. Even Shakespeare 
had to kill Mercutio very early in Romeo and Juliet. 
Actors know why — especially the man playing Romeo. 

Elimination. An experience of A. E. Thomas, as 
told by himself, will illustrate this difficulty : " Now 
and then one has to sacrifice a scene or character 
for strange reasons. One such character was en- 
tirely eliminated from The Rainbow because it was 



78 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

too good. This character, intended to be merely 
in the background of the main story, developed so 
strongly in the acting that it was ultimately de- 
cided that it seriously obscured and weakened the 
original theme. Eliminating this character deeply 
disappointed the actress who played it. But there 
was no help for it." 

Unmanageable characters. Sometimes a charac- 
ter cannot so easily be eliminated, and becomes un- 
manageable. At the end of the play, the dramatist 
finds himself with the emphasis all in the wrong 
place because of this character's domination. If 
you can always keep in mind the fact that you are 
writing parts that actors will portray, you will find 
your opinion of the relative values of your charac- 
ters much changed. Though a personality may seem 
of slight importance on the written page, it be- 
comes something very different when clothed in flesh 
and blood. A striking instance of this came to my 
notice a short time ago. The writer had had con- 
siderable experience as a writer of prose and of 
many one-act plays. But this was the first attempt 
at a drama of length. As her central figure she had 
mentally determined on a young woman of force 
and aptitude. As a contrast, she had created a vil- 
lain of a very black dye indeed. But — and I do not 
believe the author yet knows just how it happened — 
this villain was distinctly picturesque, and actually 
" hogged the show." Throughout the play he was 
consistent, frequently amusing — a character part 
that any of our foremost character-actors would 



THE CHARACTERS 79 

have reveled in playing. The curious part of it was, 
when the suggestion was made to the author that she 
re-write her play so as to make this the central figure, 
she declared she could not do it — that she would 
alter the play so as to build up the heroine. And so, 
a splendid acting character, and the possibility of 
an exceedingly entertaining play, will be lost in a 
much more conventional structure because the author 
is really half afraid of her own picturesque monster 
— unless she has changed her mind. 

Relation to the plot and to each other. In a prop- 
erly constructed play, the characters must have rela- 
tion not only to the plot, but to each other. Except 
in certain rural plays, where they are necessary as 
types or " atmosphere," the character, no matter how 
clever or funny, who has nothing to do with the 
outcome of the story has no place in the play. And 
even the " type " is used as a medium to tell some of 
the developments. He may be just funny, or just 
" atmosphere " most of the time, but there comes a 
moment in the play when he serves his definite 
purpose. 

The confidant. As we know, the monologue is a 
bad theater trick. As playwrights began to half 
sense its falsity, they cast around for some means 
to obviate its apparent necessity. Certain infor- 
mation, certain emotions, must be conveyed to the 
audience. The monologue was unnatural, therefore 
the " confidant " became a character in many plays. 
This was a personage of either sex whose sole pur- 
pose in the piece was to be on hand to listen to all 



80 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

the stories, feelings, and ideas the hero or heroine 
wished to express, and for which the inexpert drama- 
tist knew no other method of revelation. There are 
still plays in which the leading character has a bosom 
friend to whom he talks more freely than to the 
others. Since that is an entirely natural state of 
affairs in real life, there can be no objection. But, 
this character is made to serve other purposes in 
the play, has an active relationship to the plot be- 
yond his confidential capacity. The ever-present 
telephone is a useful invention which in many cases 
does away with the need for either monologue or 
confidant. If you use a character of this nature, see 
to it, then, that he is a personality and not a mere 
feeder for another role. 

" The Spy." In a play where the personages are 
inspired by their emotions, these emotions becoming 
the mainspring of action and characterization, there 
will be no real necessity for the discussion of their 
feelings with others, beyond an ordinary, legitimate 
expression or confession of thought or mood. In 
Henri Kistemacker's play, The Spy, there is an 
adroit, dramatic use made of the " confidant," who 
in this case is a priest. To no other could the heroine 
speak with as much cause as to this character. 
Though he serves no other especial purpose in the 
drama, the " trick " is never noticeable. We must 
know Monique's reasons for her intentions. They lie 
back over so long a stretch of time that only in this 
way can they reach us. Her childhood friend and 
confessor is the natural recipient of her confidences. 



THE CHARACTERS 81 

In this connection, I have no reference to one char- 
acter telling another something the audience must 
know. It is only when the other character plays 
no other part than that of a mere listener and 
adviser that legitimate reasons must be found for his 
presence in the plot, and this takes skill. Kiste- 
macker managed it well and unobtrusively. 

" The New Sin." If your characters are human, 
flesh-and-blood personalities, you will easily find a 
use for their being, since the average human listener 
to any confidence of great import is inspired with a 
desire to make use of it, either to help or hurt the 
other. In The New Sin, the hero tells his two pals of 
his intolerable situation, and tells it at some length. 
Neither of his listeners is a mere " confidant " in the 
obnoxious dramatic meaning of the term, since both 
are characters of almost equal importance with the 
hero in the development of the story. 

Irritating personality. A mistake made all too 
frequently by writers of stories as well as of plays 
is the creation of an irritating personality. Your 
hero or heroine may be unpleasant, wicked — anything 
but aggravating. Even successful writers make this 
blunder — and blunder it certainly is because of its 
effect. Several years ago a play went on in New 
York which was exceedingly clever; in fact, The 
Mollusc is one of the decade's really fine plays ; yet 
one came away dissatisfied, vaguely annoyed. Why? 
Because one had spent an hour and a half in the 
society of a woman from whom one would ordinarily 
have fled in ten minutes — or else slapped her. Sev- 



82 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

eral years ago, a dramatist, experienced enough to 
have known better, presented as his heroine a girl 
for whom one finally lost all sympathy in a desire 
to shake her for her silliness. The part was well- 
played by an actress who seemed to have full com- 
prehension of the reasons back of the girl's notions. 
Yet I well remember that at a certain point in the 
dialogue of the last act of The Harvest Moon, by 
which time the audience should have taken the girl 
to its heart if it ever intended doing so, a woman 
seated near me gave an impatient shrug of her shoul- 
ders and that unspellable little click of the tongue 
and teeth so expressive of annoyance. 

Sometimes a character may be of this irritating 
variety to point a contrast, but the audience should 
be given the satisfaction of seeing him given his 
just deserts. The public, en masse, is always virtu- 
ous and likes to see its unpleasant people punished 
in some way. An audience wishes to either have the 
villain reform, or be punished, or, at best, " foiled " 
in his attempt on the unhappiness of others. This 
feeling is entirely natural and not to be lightly 
ignored without some risk. Other things in the play 
must overbalance any failure in this direction. An 
example comes to mind in that very successful play, 
As a Man Thinks, in which a neglect of just retribu- 
tion is glossed by the skill in play-writing and the 
motive of the play itself. But many unregenerate 
in the audience — and I think the author would be sur- 
prised at the number whenever this play came up for 
discussion — were so disgusted and irritated by the 



THE CHARACTERS 83 

detestable character in question that they could see 
no reason why he should have been given the oppor- 
tunity at the end to assume the magnanimously for- 
giving attitude of the hero in a melodrama. I know 
personally of people who deliberately stayed away 
from the performance because of a dislike to being 
further " riled " than they ( had been by the mere 
reading of the reviews of the play's story. The splen- 
did acting of all the characters served to take away 
some of this annoyance at the actual performance. 

This matter of unpleasant characters must be han- 
dled very carefully. A certain manager once ex- 
pressed himself thus forcibly : " If I haven't at least 
two characters in a piece an audience can love, I 
don't produce the play." We will speak again of 
the enormous part an audience's desires and likings 
may play in your drama. 

New characters. I have spoken of the elimination 
of characters sometimes as late as after the first 
performance of the play. It has happened more than 
once that a new character is introduced at the same 
late period. In The Lady from Oklahoma, three char- 
acters were introduced after the out-of-town open- 
ing. So you see how broad must be the rule to have 
your characters well in mind from the beginning. 
Their individuality must in no way prevent your 
deletion of one or several, nor your supplanting of 
any with another and totally different personality. 

Characters suited to necessary actions. If you 
wish a certain act committed or a certain situation 
created, you must devise a character or characters 



84 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

which would under the circumstances bring those 
events to pass. You cannot outrage the probabilities 
by making your people do things which would be 
utterly contrary to the personalities you have shown. 
This is so important that some writers go to consid- 
erable lengths in making sure that the character is 
in every way consistent. One writer takes a long 
sheet of paper, and on this he traces back the geneal- 
ogy of his imaginary hero — his birthplace, his par- 
ents' names and characteristics, their birthplaces, and 
so on — until he has to his own satisfaction created 
progenitors and environment that would have brought 
forth his character. I know of another case where 
the authors of a play took an imaginary personality 
to a friend interested in astrology, and, giving her 
certain salient characteristics, said : " Under what 
signs would such a man be born and what would be 
his other habits of thought and action ? " The friend 
was both amused and excited and went to work ; pres- 
ently the man had a birthday and a horoscope. This 
was done with several other characters and the re- 
sult was interesting. The old astrologers knew a 
thing or two of human nature — certainly, in respect 
to those propensities which " went together " ; this 
was proven by the fact that each of the characters 
in that play was alive and as nearly as possible true 
to his own nature. 

Character descriptions. But these little methods 
of arriving at definition of character must be for 
yourself. Unless some dramatic purpose is served 
by the information, the audience cares only about 



THE CHARACTERS 85 

the result — the character they see. A young novice 
who evidently had some such plan in mind put the 
information, not in her play, but in her preliminary 
description in r the cast of characters. Her hero 
had a New England mother and a far-Western father. 
This was the excuse for certain traits of disposi- 
tion. But not once in the course of the play could 
the audience guess the facts, as the excuse was never 
made audible. Had anyone said in extenuation of 
certain Puritanical ideas, " His mother was from New 
England," the information would have had due 
weight. The audience see the man as he is and the 
deeds he commits ; they are not trying to cast back 
into the years to wonder whether lie had an Irish 
mother and a Dutch father. Nor, if you do not 
make active use of these facts as drama, do they 
care. Such material has value only to you as cre- 
ator; it has no place in your play-manuscript. It 
may also save you from the criticism I once heard 
thrown at a certain play : " The author did not know 
his own characters — they just happened." 

Names. In naming your characters, do not have 
two names in the cast of a similar sound or appear- 
ance, unless you have dramatic intention in the re- 
semblance. It only causes confusion. 

Suit the names to the characters: not to the ex- 
treme of the old writers, but with seeming natural- 
ness. For instance, do not call a butler Clarence or 
Lionel, or a pert demi-mondaine Mary, unless you 
mean to make dramatic or humorous use of the inap- 
propriateness of the name. Avoid either extreme. 



86 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

The simplest way is to give your characters such 
names as they might bear were they alive and num- 
bered among your acquaintances. True, people in 
real life are often cursed with inappropriate names. 
That need not be your mistake. Be human, with- 
out being either grotesque or bromidic. Not all 
Irishmen are called Patrick nor all Frenchmen Al- 
phonse. Rupert Hughes, author of Excuse Me, 
makes an excellent and helpful suggestion, with a 
closing remark pertinent at this point : " The selection 
of names for characters is an exciting process. There 
are few books that make more fascinating reading 
than a telephone book. In selecting labels for char- 
acters, I try to avoid literary names for the serious 
people and burlesque names for the flippant." 

Unusual appearance. So much for your char- 
acter-personalities and their designations. In your 
mind's eye they have also a certain physical appear- 
ance. With moderation, you have a right to state 
clearly what this appearance is. By " moderation," 
I mean that you must remember that such descrip- 
tions will not be slavishly followed by the producing 
manager, unless the story itself calls for such presen- 
tation of the part. For instance, you may see your 
heroine in your mind as a blonde with blue eyes. Un- 
less her blonde hair plays a part in the drama — as 
Hilda in The Wolf, " a Swede wi' her yeller hair " — 
your description is only suggestive and not auto- 
cratic. So with the men. It is not necessary to de- 
scribe them beyond their probable ages and general 
appearance as short or tall, thin or fat; also, you 



THE CHARACTERS 87 

may suggest some trait of manner, as suave, or impu- 
dent, or shallow, which will give the keynote to the 
proper portrayal. Of course, with certain charac- 
ter-parts (individuals of distinct or eccentric person- 
ality) you may, if you wish, describe the appear- 
ance from the crown of the head to the toes. It 
helps the actor's make-up. « 

A few character descriptions from a play of Henry 
Arthur Jones will show something of how far you 
may go. His heroine is simply described : " She is 
in widow's mourning ; about twenty-five years of age, 
with fascinating, coquettish manner." A servant is 
described as " bald, stout, about forty-five." The 
baldness here is merely a suggestion. Since no men- 
tion is made of the butler's baldness by anyone 
throughout the play, the manager may or may not 
insist upon it, according to the actors under salary 
on his list. It, however, lends " character " to the 
man's appearance, and the chances are very much 
for the author's direction being carried out — at least, 
in the performances of the original company. 

On the other hand, here is a character descrip- 
tion that would in all probability be exactly followed 
by director and actor in appearance and perform- 
ance : " a thin, pale, weedy, nervous, unhealthy-look- 
ing little man about thirty-five, very short-sighted, 
precise, fidgetty, excitable, waspish, narrow, sincere, 
with a constant habit of nervously washing his hands, 
and a painfully earnest manner." Another charac- 
ter is simply described as " a very distinguished- 
looking man about sixty ; affable, shrewd, well-bred." 



88 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

You will notice that the so-called " straight " parts 
are left much to the discretion of the producer, while 
the " character " parts are more fully described. 

In a clever play criticised some little time ago, the 
hero, a man of about forty, was given a beard by 
the author. Some of the remarks I made at the 
time as to the reasons why such a description or sug- 
gestion was needless will be of use here : " If the 
beard serves no especial purpose of characterization, 
there are several reasons against it. If you had ever 
been on the stage and had to attach and remove a 
false beard, you would understand why the actor so 
strenuously objects to wearing one unless his part 
actually demands it. A young man playing the part 
of an old one will assume a beard to help out his 
lack of years. Frequently an actor playing a phy- 
sician, or a judge, or some such character, will put 
on a beard to add dignity and a certain immobility to 
the actor's otherwise plastic features. For general use 
in juvenile or leading parts the beard is not worn, for 
the very simple reason that it disguises and makes 
difficult facial expression. It has, therefore, come 
only to be used in character parts as an assistance 
to make-up. Sometimes a leading man will wear a 
beard through part of a play to show a long illness, 
or to express any other cause for his being unshaven 
(in Act One of Tit for Tat, the hero was careless 
about his appearance ; and in Act One of An American 
Widow the leading man had been in the wilds for 
some time), but it is generally discarded before the 
end of the play. The beard on a character's face 



THE CHARACTERS 89 

as directed by the author must have as specific rea- 
son for existence in these days of clean-shaven men 
as any other part of the dramatic construction." 

The preceding will fit any other unusual charac- 
terization you may have in mind. Remembering it 
will prevent you from filling up your manuscript 
with unnecessary descriptions! 

Character changes. Your characters now have 
personality, names, and appearance. Says John 
Galsworthy in an article in the Fortnightly Review: 
" The dramatist's license ends with his design. In 
conception alone is he free. He may take what char- 
acters or groups of characters he chooses, see them 
with what eyes, knit them with what idea, within the 
limits of his temperament. Once taken, seen, and 
knitted, he is bound to treat them like a gentleman, 
with the ttnderest consideration of their main- 
springs." 

Characters change and grow as do human beings. 
It is youi task, as their creator, to see that they 
remain consistent, probable, possible. 



CHAPTER IX 

THE ACTOR, HIS DIRECTOR, AND HIS 
AUDIENCE 

THE FOUR RULES THE DESIRED EFFECT THE AUDI- 
ENCES STAGE-MANAGER AND STAGE-DIRECTOR 

BLUE-PENCILING THE ACTORS GOOD PARTS 

PLAYS FOR PARTICULAR ACTORS THE ACTOR'S 

OPPORTUNITIES 

Four rules. Thus far, we have formulated four 
rules — all of them as apparently self-evident as the 
historic recipe for hare-soup. First, know your me- 
dium, the theater ; second, have a clear story to tell ; 
third, be sure this story is " single " in plot ; fourth, 
learn how to tell your story through your medium. 
Our " fourthly " is only another way of saying, write 
your play by whatever rules of technique you have 
mastered until practice has taught you how to do it. 

The desired effect. There is still another matter 
to be taken into account before you feel your me- 
dium is in a manner under your fingers: that is, 
the effect you desire to produce. It has been said 
here that in prose writing you may write what and 
how you please, offend sensibilities and opinions, 
break rules of technique at your own will, publish 
your book yourself and give it away. But in so 
doing you will have offended against one canon of 

90 



ACTOR, DIRECTOR, AND AUDIENCE 91 

good writing, left out of your calculations one im- 
portant consideration — the effect upon your read- 
ers. If you do not care whether anyone reads what 
you write, well and good. But most people write 
to convince others of certain matters, to interest them 
in special subjects, to amuse jthem, or for no better 
reason than the mercenary one of getting them to 
buy the book. Consciously or unconsciously, we de- 
sire to produce a certain effect, else we are writing 
nothing but words. So universally recognized an 
authority as Professor Barrett Wendell, of Harvard 
University, speaks again and again of this matter of 
the effect to be achieved. 

The audience. In play-writing, this effect is pro- 
duced by actors, under stage direction, on an audi- 
ence. Therefore, remember your audiences. Think 
of them. Will this point be clear? Will they un- 
derstand why I did this? Shall I have to go into 
lengthy explanations in that matter? Will a word 
express this emotion or will a gesture do it better? 
Will it " get over " ? These are questions even the 
experienced playwright asks himself. How these ef- 
fects are produced will be dealt with as clearly as can 
be managed, when we sit down to begin work on the 
scenario, and start the actual writing of the play. 
Just now we will devote a little time to the actor, his 
stage-director, and his audience, since these are mat- 
ters, along with the mechanism of the theater and 
the technique of writing, which the experienced play- 
wright takes into account. They are included in the 
comprehensive knowledge of his craftsmanship. 



92 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

Stage-manager and director. There is some slight 
difference in meaning in the two terms, stage-manager 
and stage-director, as used in the theater, though the 
terms are used interchangeably by the layman. The 
stage-director is the man who plans the scenic ar- 
rangements, contrives the bringing together of all 
integral parts of the drama, and directs all re- 
hearsals. He is in the position of the orchestra 
leader. The stage-manager is the man detailed to 
" remember " all the director's instructions. He is 
constantly with the company, while the director's 
work is frequently finished after the play has had 
its opening, and all is in good running order. The 
stage-manager sees that the stage is properly " set " 
for every performance, that the actors are in their 
places at the proper time, and that they keep up to 
the mark in their several parts. If there is any 
evidence of slacking up, or if a change is made in 
the cast, he it is who calls and directs rehearsals 
along the lines laid down by the original director. 
Every company has its own stage-manager. One 
stage-director may have rehearsed three or four dif- 
ferent companies. Sometimes this director is the 
author of the play, sometimes he is the actor or 
actress playing the leading or " star " part. Often- 
est, he is a man who does nothing else. Most of 
the large theatrical firms have a general stage- 
director, whose duty it is to engage the companies for 
the various plays to be produced by his firm, and 
oversee, if not actually direct, all rehearsals. He 
usually has several subordinate directors who follow 



ACTOR, DIRECTOR, AND AUDIENCE 93 

his instructions. The playwright's business is, there- 
fore, mostly concerned with the stage-director rather 
than the stage-manager. 

An actually necessary qualification of the stage- 
director is the almost psychic ability to understand 
and appraise the personalities and idiosyncrasies of 
the players. Each actor brings something of his 
own to the part he plays, for good or ill. He must 
be brought into line with the desired result with- 
out spoiling his individual performance. It is in this 
regard of making due allowance for the person- 
ality of each player that David Belasco excels as a 
stage-director. 

A good director studies the play in manuscript 
until he is thoroughly in sympathy and understand- 
ing with the dramatist's intentions. He sees every 
character not as a single part, but in its relation 
to the play as a whole. No actor, however clever, 
is left entirely to himself to move at will through 
his surroundings. His movements may be circum- 
scribed by nothing more important than the stage 
furniture, but they must be guided accordingly. 
Unity of interpretation is as necessary as any other 
unity. In a modern play, for instance, all the actors 
must speak and move after the manners and customs 
of the day. It would be incongruous for one player 
to insist on reading his everyday speeches in the 
manner of the stilted theatrical method used in the 
earlier days — unless, of course, he is playing that 
kind of character. Sometimes an actor with a long 
experience in Shakespearean and other classic roles 



94 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

has a little difficulty in remembering that the lines 
in a modern comedy are not blank verse. It is faults 
such as these that the director is called upon to mod- 
ify. No dramatist really wants an " all-star " cast 
for his play, because experience has taught him that 
unless the director is out of the ordinary, a genius 
of the craft, the play will be sacrificed to individual 
" hits " ; while an expert director can handle the 
usual company of players, supposing none of them to 
be below the average, to the very best advantage. 

Blue-penciling. The director has also a function 
of great interest to the dramatist — the altering and 
amending of the author's lines and business, the 
frequent blue-penciling of the writer's pet speeches. 
This matter is ofttimes not managed with any real 
discretion. But with an intelligent director, the 
changes are usually caused solely by the fact that 
the author's lines are inadequate to certain moments 
in the play, or certain business suggested is inef- 
fective — facts which might only become apparent 
when the play is taking form on the stage and not 
noticed while it remained in manuscript. 

It is only when the author himself is the stage- 
director that we find a play reaching the audience 
just as it left the writer's hands — and this is fre- 
quently because he himself makes changes in it at 
rehearsal. Sardou was so expert in his knowledge 
of the stage that even the shifting of furniture was 
planned for at the proper places in the dialogue. 
An author can work nearly an hour to find some 
plausible reason for changing the position of a 



ACTOR, DIRECTOR, AND AUDIENCE 95 

chair from one side of the stage to the other. It is 
hardly necessary to state that such explicit directions 
are best let alone by the novice. They are part of 
a competent stage-director's planning, and the 
author need only suggest. 

A great stage-director must have three qualifica- 
tions, and possess those three to an extraordinary 
degree. He must be able to absorb the author's 
ideas, until they become as much a part of himself 
as if he had personally evolved them ; he must be 
able to pass those ideas into concrete action through 
the author's dialogue — though he may sometimes 
be compelled to substitute lines of his own to better 
express the author's idea than the latter has him- 
self; and, most of all, he must be capable of con- 
veying these ideas and actions to the players until 
all work toward the harmonious result he desires. 

The actors and good parts. I advised in the pre- 
vious chapter that you always keep in mind the 
fact that you are writing parts which actors will 
portray. All of the great playwrights, from the 
Greeks to the present day, wrote excellent roles. It 
is because of this excellence that many a player look- 
ing for an opportunity to portray certain gifts goes 
as far back as Euripides to find a vehicle. This very 
good trait, however, has its pitfalls for the novice. 
Never fail to think of every speech you write as 
one that will be spoken aloud by an actor; but do 
not write speeches solely to give him something to 
say. The ability to write good parts is a mark of 
skill ; you can acquire it with experience. But a good 



96 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

acting part which is separate from the body of the 
play is not the fulfillment of this ability. It was in 
an effort to write a big scene for her heroine that 
a certain tyro " fell down " badly. An entirely un- 
necessary emotional scene was given this character, 
with no other apparent intention than that of giving 
the actress who might play the part something to 
do. The scene was out of place and undramatic, be- 
cause it would have aroused wrong impressions in 
the mind of an audience, and given undue emphasis 
to a matter which the finale of the play plainly 
showed was of no importance. In this case, while 
remembering the actor, the writer had neglected 
the audience. 

It is curious what an effect in the hands of an 
inexperienced writer this desire to create a good 
part will have on the writing of the play itself. I 
have seen several plays — I may add, only in manu- 
script — where really fine leading roles eminently 
suited to certain well-known people were buried in 
bad plays. I cannot exactly state how such errors 
came about : possibly a poor story to begin with, and 
a continual " padding " of the leading part with 
good though unimportant acting scenes, until the 
part was out of all proportion to the play. Only an 
actor eaten up with conceit and blind to all the 
public demands would have looked at such a play. 

Plays for particular actors. A dramatist is fre- 
quently called on to write plays for certain particu- 
lar actors. What Shakespeare often did no ordi- 
nary writer need feel to be beneath him. That Gil- 



ACTOR, DIRECTOR, AND AUDIENCE 97 

bert and Sullivan wrote their operettas with certain 
actors and singers in mind has in no way impaired 
or dulled the beauty of their work. In truth, pos- 
terity is the gainer in the fact that even some of 
their minor roles were intended to be sung by first- 
rate performers. The char ( m of the music of all 
parts given to the character-woman in most of these 
plays is owing to the fact that in the company which 
sang these operas when they had their original pro- 
ductions was a very clever comedienne with a really 
noteworthy contralto voice. The parts of " Ka- 
tisha " in The Mikado, " Little Buttercup " in Pina- 
fore, " Hannah " in Ruddygore, and the Fairy Queen 
in lolanthe, will serve as examples of roles written 
with this singer's capacities in mind. 

Alfred Sutro, the English dramatist, author of 
The Perplexed Husband, said in an interview in the 
New York Times : " The knowledge that you are go- 
ing to be interpreted by a great actor gives you cour- 
age and enthusiasm." Many dramatists mentally 
" cast " their plays after the characters are clearly 
in mind, and find it a help to visualize the parts 
as being acted by their chosen players. 

The actor's opportunity. In this matter of writ- 
ing good parts and being at the same time entirely 
natural something has been lost to the actor — big 
opportunity. In a magazine article some time ago, 
Walter Pritchard Eaton stated this loss and its 
reason very clearly : " In the stern elimination of 
any but truthful, logical, and significant situations, 
in the stern suppression of ' emotional ' scenes for 



98 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

their own sake, when such scenes do not arise natu- 
rally from the character and explain the intellec- 
tual message of the play, the modern dramatists have 
forged a technique which is capable of setting forth 
contemporary life on the stage as truthfully and 
plausibly as in a novel, of teaching by inference 
an ethical or political, or even philosophic lesson, 
of making the drama seem in the eyes of thinking 
men and women a more serious and important thing 
than it has been, in English, at least, for more 
than a century. And in doing this the dramatists 
have done well. But they have inevitably done it 
at a tremendous sacrifice . . . the sacrifice of great 
acting. . . . Progress will come, the restoration of 
great acting will come, when our modern dramatists 
discover greatness and poetry in contemporary life, 
when the representation of great emotions is de- 
manded of actors not as a ' stunt ' in an unimportant 
or false story, but as a logical outcome of an impor- 
tant and truthful story, as the natural expression 
of great men and women." 

Before leaving the actor — only temporarily, for 
we are never going to forget him — let me again quote 
from the interview with Mr. Sutro : " Anything which 
would damage the actor's effectiveness or dull his 
ardor would be fatal to the drama. The ambition 
of the actor is the dramatist's greatest instrument 
for success. The author and the actor are of one 
blood; and the former is particularly dependent on 
the latter." 

Mr. Eaton flings a challenge abroad to the drama- 



ACTOR, DIRECTOR, AND AUDIENCE 99 

tists, which all actors would echo, and which has 
a place here as an impetus to the runner who is 
fresh in the race : " What our stage needs is play- 
wrights of greater and nobler imagination. What 
our actors need is a chance." 



CHAPTER X 

THE ACTOR, HIS DIRECTOR, AND HIS 
AUDIENCE (Continued) 

THE EFFECT ON THE PUBLIC THE PUBLIC'S SHARE 

IN THE PLAY IGNORING THE AUDIENCE WEDE- 

KIND CULTS WRITING DOWN TO THE CROWD 

LESS THAN THE' BEST THE POPULAR SIDE HIGH- 
LIGHTS DISTRACTING SCENERY AND ACTIONS IN- 
FORMING THE AUDIENCE 

The effect on the public. What will be the effect 
of your play, as presented by the actor under direc- 
tion, on your public? Will this effect be the one 
you intended to produce? We have spoken of it 
before in the matter of the creation of characters. 
On the very day this chapter was being written the 
following sentences occurred in the New York Times 
in the criticism of a play which in every other re- 
spect seems to have delighted the critic : " In the 
first act it must be admitted that the little wife did 
seem a dreadfully simple-minded person. One wanted 
to get up and shake her. But whether the fault was 
a too insistent softness in the acting or in the writing 
could not easily be determined at the moment." 

It was once said by a well-known reviewer that the 
most important actor in the cast is the audience. 
The more the play is moving in his mind, the better 

100 



ACTOR, DIRECTOR, AND AUDIENCE 101 

for your chances of success. If the spectators are 
puzzled, if your situations, to you pregnant with 
matter, seem to them to be meaningless, you have 
failed. 

Ignoring the audience. Which brings us to a still 
undecided argument frequently waged by dramatists 
and reviewers — just how far may an audience be ig- 
nored? The argument seems to the present writer 
too purely academic to be of any real importance 
to living drama. Nevertheless, writers whose names 
demand respect and attention frequently make posi- 
tive statements on one side or the other of the ques- 
tion. The truth might be — probably is — that here as 
elsewhere the middle ground is best, the extreme of 
either completely ignoring the public or of bowing 
servilely to it being equally bad. The drama, we are 
told, is a " function of the crowd." Therefore, the 
big writer is not the one who ignores or insults his 
public, but the one who first gets its attention and 
then takes it along with him whither he will. This 
has been the successful method from the beginning. 
Psychologists have a terse phrase which expresses 
quite simply the procedure in any course of instruc- 
tion addressed to the human brain : " Proceed from 
the known to the unknown." From the teacher in 
the kindergarten to the orator in the great audi- 
torium, the first rule is " Get their attention." This 
is accomplished almost invariably by telling them 
something they can quickly and easily understand. 
This once done, the length to which the audience can 
be carried is limited only by the holder of the 



102 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

rostrum. If the audience refuses to follow, if the 
children become inattentive or bewildered, of what 
use is your message? You must get possession of 
your audience. This does not mean they must agree 
with you in every instance, but your premises must 
be so strong that they will at least respect your 
views. 

Do not think I mean to advise giving the public 
only what you think it wants. That would take you 
to the opposite extreme of servility. In the first 
place, no one knows just what the public does want. 
And servility in that regard is frequently as pro- 
ductive of contempt as any other form of sycophancy. 

Wedekind. On the other hand, to write only for 
one's self or a select coterie is to change from 
sycophancy to insolence. Wedekind might be a great 
dramatist, but he is not. No one of the finer writers 
with a real message to deliver has a greater con- 
tempt for his public. The Awakening of Spring is 
not a play, it is a thesis in dialogue form. It would 
have reached a larger public, preached a greater 
lesson, had the writer cared more for the people 
for whom his moral was drawn and sent it abroad 
in prose. There are reviewers who profess to ad- 
mire his daring disregard of technique, forgetting 
that he is great, in spite of his use of the wrong 
medium, because of what he has to say. On the other 
hand, while Brieux's Damaged Goods is also a thesis 
in dialogue, it is so written that it can be played in 
a theater under ordinary conditions, without our 
realizing until it is over that it has transgressed 



ACTOR, DIRECTOR, AND AUDIENCE 103 

many of the laws of technique, especially so far as 
" story " is concerned. It might be well to add just 
here, as a cautionary note to the novice, that such 
subjects as are treated in these plays require expert 
handling not to offend against the canons of good 
taste. This is no place for an academic discussion as 
to their fitness for the theater: opinion is divided. 
But for the novice, with other difficulties facing him, 
such subjects are best left to the experienced 
dramatist. 

The things which we call great, the things which 
will live, are the things on which the public, how- 
ever belatedly, has set the seal of approval. This 
is not to say that all of the public is discerning; 
often an artistic success is not a popular one, and 
vice versa. But work which the public condemns 
cannot be great. The public may not understand 
the goodness or badness of the technical means you 
have used. But your subject and your point of 
view regarding that subject will be the points praised 
or condemned. It is not necessary to write for 
the lower element in the crowd to be human. To 
write for the average has been the aim of all the 
great writers. Disdain for the crowd is a pose, 
and not a mark of the great soul. How much finer 
it is to spur the ordinary man onward to a wider 
vision outside his own humdrum mental kingdom, 
than simply to ladle out mental pabulum to minds 
already surfeited ! 

Cults. In the theater we have a way of slangily 
dividing the audiences into " high-brows " and " low- 



104 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

brows." Except where a play is of the " cult " order, 
there is no such thing as an audience exclusively one 
or the other. Both kinds, and all the intermediate 
varieties, make up the average audience. It is not 
individual. It is a crowd, its unit individualities 
partially submerged in the larger organism, its opin- 
ion that of the majority. There are, of course, ex- 
ceptions, as in all crowds : the ones so strongly indi- 
vidual as to be above the crowd, and those so ordi- 
nary as to be below it in mental grasp. However, 
in an average theater of the first class the latter may 
be said to be an almost negligible quantity. 

Writing down to the crowd. This fear of writ- 
ing down to the crowd appears in all forms of writing. 
It is a fear of which I have spoken before. Write 
what you have to say. It is your message ; if prop- 
erly delivered, it will be sure to reach its mark. Arlo 
Bates speaks of this fear as being more especially 
a trait of the untrained writer, a feeling " that they 
lower themselves if they write for the intellectual 
bourgeoisie." To the writer who is sincere in his 
work, and above all in his art, his message, his theme, 
and the earnest desire to make both clear, are the 
things of paramount importance. 

Less than the best. It is not often that I feel 
called upon to cross swords with William Archer, and 
it is perhaps unfair to rake up old opinions. But, 
in an address delivered at Columbia University, on 
one of his visits to America, he made this state- 
ment : " The art that, as a condition of its exist- 
ence, is forced to make an instant appeal to such 



ACTOR, DIRECTOR, AND AUDIENCE 105 

an enormous public must in the very nature of things 
be mediocre art. The consequence is that no drama- 
tist can afford to put the best that is in him into 
his plays." Believe me, if anyone puts less than 
his best into any play he writes, he pays the conse- 
quences. Oratory must make an instant appeal, and 
yet who will dare call the moving eloquence of a 
great orator mediocre art ! Because an art is lim- 
ited by the forms through which it expresses itself 
in no way affects the art. It is the ability to use 
these forms as if they were part of one's self and 
second nature that makes the artist. Get the atten- 
tion and respect of your audience at the outset, and 
do not let their intellectual status worry you. If 
you have anything worth saying, you will find some- 
body to listen, sympathize, and understand. If your 
premises are sound, you will have listeners who will 
follow your arguments no matter how iconoclastic. 
If you insult or defy them, they will neither listen 
nor heed. 

There is a mercenary side, of course — the popu- 
lar side. A well-known dramatist has half contemptu- 
ously expressed himself on the subject — you may 
draw your own conclusions and regard or disregard 
as you choose : " A successful dramatist should have 
no other theories of life than that he should discover 
the mass of the people's theories of life. . . . The 
public objects to have its mode of thought shaken, and 
the dramatist, if he wants to be successful, at least, 
must go with the crowd." 



106 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

High-lights. In a painting, there is always some 
focal point, the high-light, the place to which the 
artist wishes to draw your first look. This focal 
point exists in the play as well as in the painting — 
it occurs with every new scene. We speak frequently 
of something as being " completely in the picture," 
or as being " out of the picture," meaning in the 
latter case something which has distracted the at- 
tention, or spoiled a harmony. In these days we 
are so used to realism on the stage that it is not 
always some point in the scenery which catches the 
attention at the wrong moment : in the first days 
of realistic scenic construction the fault very often 
lay in this direction. It does still occur, however, 
and never fails to distract attention from some im- 
portant line or business. If this unusual scenic 
touch is part of the effect to be produced, then it is 
" in the picture." Often we find the curtain rising 
on a scene of peculiar loveliness, and an instant or 
two is allowed before anyone enters or speaks so 
that the effect may be allowed to sink in. But too 
much realism is sure to call attention away from some 
important point. In a clever play produced in 
New York some ten years or more ago was a cer- 
tain scene where a window was partially opened for 
some reason, and again closed. At the moment of 
the lifting of the window, a pair of muslin curtains 
instantly blew inward as if tossed by a wintry breeze. 
It was natural, realistic, rather pretty in effect, and 
of course everyone saw it with pleased surprise. But 
— I doubt if anyone in the audience noticed what 



ACTOR, DIRECTOR, AND AUDIENCE 107 

the actors were doing or saying at the moment. We 
already knew it was a cold day ; every character en- 
tering from outdoors had spoken of it, all were 
dressed for icy weather, so the effect was unneces- 
sary and distracting. A window-curtain does not 
always blow when the window is opened, even in 
winter. 

The same is true of distracting action as of dis- 
tracting scenery. Very frequently such action is 
the fault of the stage-director, sometimes of an 
inconsiderate or ignorant player. But sometimes it 
is the dramatist who draws attention away from his 
" high-light " by a sudden speech from some char- 
acter other than those concerned. Occasionally this 
distraction may be necessary — it may break the 
tension which was growing too taut. But it must be 
handled skillfully. A situation or line which causes 
an audience to laugh at the wrong moment makes 
it difficult to get them back to the proper spirit again 
■ — for a few moments, anyway. Two experiences of 
actors in two plays will show how carefully such 
scenes must be handled by dramatist, director, and 
actor. 

Some years ago, in Boston, a well-known actress 
was rehearsing in a play never before produced in 
this country. The director was able, experienced; 
the instructions of the dramatist were being care- 
fully followed. Delighted with a certain climax at 
the very end of the play, he turned genially to a 
young actor sitting near him : " Great, isn't she ! " 
The youngster nodded decidedly, then, half timidly, 



108 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

for he was very new in the business, added : " But, 

Mr. , aren't you afraid — er — I mean, won't they 

laugh?" "Laugh! No! They'll be looking at 
her! " The opening night the young actor was too 
much worried about his own part to take much notice. 
But next day, the great director, passing him on the 
stage, stopped and half grudgingly, yet generously, 
said : " Young 'un, you were right. They laughed! " 
The enthusiastic director had seen only the star 
in the center of the stage; the young man's eyes 
had wandered to another part of the stage to a 
scene going on at the same moment which was 
distinctly comedy. Needless to say, the scene was 
changed. 

In the other case, two well-known actors had a 
scene together. One was the star, the other his 
leading man. They were friends, as well. The star 
had several opportunities to show his abilities ; this 
scene was the leading man's one chance. It was 
highly emotional and played rapidly. About the 
middle of the scene, the star, whose part was light 
comedy, had to interrupt. If he read his interrup- 
tion for comedy effect, he received an outburst of 
laughter. That laugh killed the rest of the scene, 
and all the skill of the other man could hardly get 
the audience back to the proper point of view which 
the really big speeches to follow demanded. So 
the star very generously sacrificed this one mis- 
placed laugh, read the speech almost in the same 
key as the other actor, and the scene was saved. 
The fault here lay with the dramatist, since he in- 



ACTOR, DIRECTOR, AND AUDIENCE 109 

tended his hero to be as witty as possible, at both 
opportune and inopportune moments. 

Always keep in mind the impression you want 
to produce. It is so very easy to give a wrong one. 
Sometimes one does not realize the fact until the 
play has gone into rehearsal. So often one's hero 
will be strong, vital, impressive in one's own mind, 
and the lines given him will present weakness in 
every form to the audience. We will say more of 
this false or wrong impression 'later. It is mentioned 
here because it concerns the audience. 

Informing the audience. Another matter under 
frequent discussion is the imparting of a secret to 
the audience. Some writers maintain that an audi- 
ence must never be kept in the dark; others, that 
it is good to do so, if you can. But the rub is, you 
cannot. Very few people go to the theater in these 
days of daily newspapers knowing nothing of the 
story of a play. Therefore, the most carefully, most 
adroitly concealed secret is no secret at all. An audi- 
ence practically says to the characters : " We know 
all about the mess you've got yourselves into. Now 
let's see how cleverly you'll get out." If you are 
clever enough to manage a real surprise, go ahead. 
I fear it could only be done to perfection by spring- 
ing a fresh one at every performance. If an audi- 
ence confidently expects certain things to happen, 
it will go hard with you if your surprise is inade- 
quate or disappointing. Says A. B. Walkley : " The 
aim of the great artist is not to surprise the spec- 
tator with an unforeseen, but to gratify him with 



110 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

an ' inevitable ' action. It is not to provoke his 
curiosity about what is going to happen so much 
as to excite in him a keen desire that a certain thing 
shall happen, and then satisfy that desire to the 
full." This in no way precludes surprising and 
adroitlj r managed developments. But do not expect 
them to remain secrets, from the very nature of the 
present-day theater. However, there are surprises 
in the delineation of a character which may not, 
through their entirely psychological nature, become 
public knowledge, as would a surprise which con- 
cerned mere episode. But it is doubtful if the keep- 
ing from an audience such an important matter as 
the mental habits of a character is either wise or 
dramatic. Doing so spoiled most of the effect of 
Bernstein's The Secret. That his heroine was suf- 
fering from a sort of moral warp amounting to 
monomania was a point that reached the audience 
too late to arouse its sympathy. Ibsen made no such 
mistake with Hedda Gabler. 

If you excite a desire that a certain thing shall 
happen, if you fail to satisfy that desire in order 
to " spring " some secret or sudden surprise, and 
if in spite of this your play succeeds, you have done 
something very remarkable. It has been said before 
that there is no hard and fast rule of play-writing. 
Do as you please, if you can " get it over." But if 
you are just beginning to write plays, follow what 
rules there are. It will be wiser in the long run, 
believe me. 



CHAPTER XI 
THE SCENARIO 

A CHART THE CHARACTERS PLASTICITY OF THE 

SCENARIO THE OLD FORMALISM NUMBER OF 

ACTS PERIODS OF DEVELOPMENT SCENE DE- 
SCRIPTIONS ACT ONE LETTING THE MACHINERY 

CREAK THE INTENDED CONCLUSION EXAMPLES 

OF DEVELOPMENT EXPLANATION TOO LATE 

EXPLANATION TOO EARLY 

Let us see how far you have gone along the road 
to writing your play. You know something of the in- 
ternal mechanism of the theater, you have given due 
consideration to the actor's part in play-production, 
you have an average idea of the audience's place. 
All these are very necessary. 

The chart. Of your play itself you have only 
your story, containing within it the effect you wish 
that story to produce. Taking all these things into 
consideration, you are still of the mind that your 
story is fit for dramatic presentation. If you have 
taken the suggestion of writing it first as prose, you 
will be better able to alter and rearrange it than 
if it is merely a chaotic jumble in your head. This 
suggestion to write out a bit of prose fiction is 
intended solely as an assistant for the novice, for 
reasons I have already carefully explained. On the 

111 



112 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

clearness of this story will depend the practicability 
of your scenario. It takes much experience to turn 
out a clear-cut scenario at the first writing, and even 
the best are altered again and again as the char- 
acters take form and life. This first scenario is only 
a chart for your own use. The later scenario, which 
is a resume to be submitted to a manager — should he 
ever demand one, which he rarely does — is written 
from the completed play. 

The characters. With your story written as sug- 
gested you have found certain characters necessary 
to aid in the telling. These must have definite place 
in your mind, definite reasons for existence, before 
becoming part of your scenario. In the chapter on 
the characters you found certain notes of warning 
in regard to these. But the more they are human 
beings to you, the easier you will find the matter of 
putting your story into shape. Do not be alarmed 
at the information that the work you are now on is 
perhaps the most important part of your play- 
writing. You plan your work with as much detail 
as you find possible at the time. You find the point 
at which you desire events to begin, determine on 
the manner in which you will work them out, and 
upon the conclusion or climax. 

Plasticity of the scenario. However, remember 
this: your plan, your scenario, is plastic. It is a 
guide; if while at work writing the actual play you 
find a better way of " getting there " than your guide 
suggests, do not hesitate to take it. Any form which 
gives you a feeling of rigidity, of compulsion, is 



THE SCENARIO 113 

only of use as practice in the work of filling in. I 
am sure the resulting play would be stiff and formal. 
Eugene Scribe went so far as to say : " When my 
scenario is very clear, very complete, I might have 
the play written by my servant." One wonders 
what kind of a servant he had. We know that his 
plays were of the old-school, French formalism — the 
so-called " well-made play." But as to a hide-bound 
scenario, filled in by an underling — it is a risk few 
would care to take. < 

So " fluid " — as William Archer expresses it — is 
your scenario that it is possible not only to shift 
scenes and characters, even to the point of complete 
elimination or substitution, but the very nature and 
quality of the idea you are working out may be 
changed. What may have impressed you as a farci- 
cal idea when you started grows into something so 
serious as to be almost tragic. This shows the im- 
portance of sifting and re-sifting all your material 
again and again. The more thoroughly this is done 
before starting your play, the less alteration after- 
ward you will be compelled to make. But this, as 
elsewhere throughout your apprenticeship, is where 
only practice and experience can be your guide. 

The old formalism. The old formalism demanded 
an introduction, the rise, the climax, the return or 
fall, and the catastrophe ; the play was usually di- 
vided into five acts. To-day the majority have but 
three, corresponding to the major and minor premises 
and conclusion of the usual argument or syllogism — 
though this correspondence is usually unconscious, 



11 4 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

since most well-built arguments in any line fall 
into this division. It is, therefore, not a rigid but 
an entirely natural form. Nevertheless, successful 
modern plays have been written with four acts which, 
though less symmetrical, may yet be made necessary 
by some form of argument used to produce the de- 
sired conclusion. With the old five-act formula much 
extraneous matter crept in, in the nature of sub- 
plots, comedy relief, and like methods no longer 
popular. In Sheldon's recent dramatization of Su- 
dermann's The Song of Songs there are five acts ; and 
almost without exception critics agreed that it would 
have been a stronger play if the first two had been 
omitted. 

Going back still further than the old formal plays, 
we find that there were actually parts in these un- 
necessarily drawn-out plays which were not meant 
to be especially heeded. We are told by Charles 
Hastings in his book, The Theatre: "As there were 
no entr'actes, the spectators (in the Greek theater) 
had to bring their provisions, which they ate during 
the less interesting parts of the play; but as soon 
as the great actors came on the scene the viands were 
put aside out of respect for them." It is no longer 
necessary to provide dull periods in the course of a 
play to enable the spectators to gossip or dine ; the 
entr'actes do that, therefore the drama proper al- 
lows of no extraneous material. 

Number of acts. With your story in hand, and 
the characters you mean to use, plan the number 
of acts you think you will require, and how much 



THE SCENARIO 115 

of the story you wish to cover in each act. Your 
acts will usually run from thirty to forty-five min- 
utes. See that your action is possible within that 
period. By possible, I would seem to mean that 
the action should cover just the number of minutes 
required to play the act — using the word action in 
its drama sense- as meaning the episodes, et cetera, 
in the act. But the action possible in an act can be 
quite elastic. When people are interested, the time 
passes quickly; if it is cleverly done, the action 
may appear to cover more than an hour, or even two, 
during the passage of the regulation playing-time 
in an act. In Arsene Lupin, a successful play re- 
cently seen in New York, the first act was supposed 
to include the hours from five to nine p.m. This is 
an extreme case, but it was so adroitly managed that 
one did not think of it until afterward. It was nev- 
ertheless a mistake. I read a play a little while ago 
in which, at the beginning of the act, the heroine 
received a letter. By the end of the same act she 
spoke of the receipt of that letter as being two years 
previous. Two years ! And not a sign of a cur- 
tain to mark the passage of time ! 

If you want a little practice in preparing a scena- 
rio before starting your own, take a copy of some 
successful modern play, and write a scenario from 
it. A synopsis is simply a story in your own words 
of the main facts of the play. A scenario takes the 
drama scene by scene, entrances, exits, et cetera. 
Turn to Appendix A, which will show you what is 
meant. Exclusive of my explanatory notes, this 



116 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

analysis is very much the sort of thing a dramatist 
works up for his scenario. In Appendix B you will 
find a brief working scenario for Pinero's The Sec- 
ond Mrs. Tanqueray. This is not so exhaustive as 
the more analytical scenario in Appendix A. Make 
one for yourself from any other play you wish. 
Scenery descriptions are omitted from both of these. 
In an original scenario they would be more or less 
necessary. Study A and B in connection with these 
two chapters. 

A start for a very conventional three-act comedy, 
minus, in this case, any especial interest or drama, 
might run thus: 

Act One — The meeting. 

Act Two — The quarrel. 

Act Three — The reconciliation. 

Periods of development. You have thus divided 
your action into three periods of development or 
progress. In Act One you intend to bring your 
hero and heroine together, with all the attendant in- 
cidents. In Act Two you mean to have them quarrel, 
giving the reasons and episodes leading thereto. In 
Act Three you wish to reunite them. On this skele- 
ton you hang your scenario. You fill in, following 
the plan of the model story you have already writ- 
ten out as an assistant. Give entrances and exits, 
and snatches of dialogue or apt phrases as they oc- 
cur to you. 

Scene descriptions. We will begin with Act One. 
Your scenario gives place, time, and something of 
your general idea for the setting or scenery of the act. 



THE SCENARIO U7 

If your knowledge of stage mechanics is slight, you 
need not be too detailed; if your use of terms is 
incorrect, you will only be confusing. Better say, 
merely, a library, a garden, et cetera, than display 
undue ignorance, which will immediately prejudice 
the play-reader. 

I want to say right here that this ignorance at 
the very beginning of a play is one of the most 
frequent reasons why the unknown playwright does 
not have his plays read: I am speaking now of the 
finished MS., not the scenario. The very natural 
managerial supposition is that if the writer knows 
so little of his medium, he must know less of his 
method. If you have a good story to tell, a mere 
ignorance of technical terms does not prevent your 
writing it. On the other hand, it is not necessary 
to exhibit that ignorance by use of the wrong terms. 

The first paragraph or so of a finished scenario 
is descriptive business. For your own personal use, 
it will only be necessary to generalize in this descrip- 
tion, to hold the mental picture in mind. By " busi- 
ness " we generally mean all of a play that is not 
actually spoken by the players. It includes descrip- 
tions, actions, gestures, and so on; frequently, how- 
ever, only actions and gestures are meant. 

The " business " in a Shaw play is usually as good 
reading as the play itself, but Shaw is unique. Do 
not attempt to imitate that part of his work. Imi- 
tation of any other part would be either impossi- 
ble or inadvisable. Your chief concern is to be as 
clear and concise as you can. 



118 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

If there are people on the stage at rise of the 
curtain, mention them in order, with a brief descrip- 
tion of each, something of the general appearance, 
and chief characteristics, to prove to yourself that 
they are clear in your mind. Sometimes the curtain 
rises on an " empty stage." By that we simply 
mean, not that the stage is unfurnished, but that 
none of the characters is present. 

The following is a suggestion based on personal 
experience. Have a pad, eight by five, or tear large 
sheets of paper in half to about this size. Begin 
each scene on a separate sheet. That is, if you will 
refer to the appendix, all that goes in scene one as 
written there would go on the first sheet, using both 
sides, if necessary. Then, if in the process of writ- 
ing it becomes necessary to refer back, either to trans- 
fer from one scene to another, or to " plant " a situ- 
ation which may come to you later as necessary, you 
have only to turn to the proper sheet of paper and 
,write it in — almost anywhere on the sheet will do, 
so long as it gets on that page, for future reference. 
I suggest sheets of this size instead of the card cata- 
logue system so often used in other branches of 
writing, because the cards in many cases would be 
too small to contain the amount of material. How- 
ever, if you prefer the cards, use them. Some such 
method as this will clarify your idea amazingly. 

Act One. To go back to our first act. All you 
wish to have happen which leads up to the meeting 
of your lovers must find place in this act. Also you 
must lay the ground in various ways for events to 



THE SCENARIO 119 

occur in Acts Two and Three. All that happens 
later should in some way be prepared for in this first 
act — a speech here, a bit of business there, all tend- 
ing to later cumulative events. Since you mean to 
have the lovers quarrel in Act Two, the reasons 
leading to this quarrel must be given in Act One — 
perhaps something in the personality of one of the 
lovers or some other character, or in the manner 
of their meeting, or what you will. We need not 
see too plainly that a quarrel is inevitable, but you 
must prepare for its possibility. Even the Third 
Act reconciliation need not just " happen," to make 
a happy ending. Nor, unless there is some especial 
motive of which you mean to make dramatic use, 
is it necessary to make all these reasons and plans 
too obvious. No matter what apparently unexpected 
events may occur in your play, they must be co- 
ordinate parts of your plot; but in some way the 
mind of the spectator must be prepared for them. 

The intended conclusion, with examples. All 
through Act One you, as creator, must always keep 
in mind your intended conclusion. For instance, in 
a play of which I spoke in an earlier chapter, the 
husband died in Act One, to make room for an- 
other man to whom the heroine gave her troth at 
the finale of the play. That betrothal was the 
author's conclusion. Yet in Act One her heroine's 
grief over her husband's death was so excessive, so 
emotional, that no matter how much one realized 
the forgetfulness of human nature, her love for 
the other man came as a shock. What if the author 



120 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

did make years pass between? The reader and spec- 
tator had to bridge the gap mentally in a few min- 
utes. If it was necessary to remove the husband, 
then his widow's love and marriage to another man 
should have been in some way prepared either by 
making husband number one a brute or showing us 
that his wife really did not love him, so that regret 
at his death would be tempered by relief at her 
release. Or the husband could have died before the 
play began. Matters antedating the beginning of 
the play do not affect an audience so strongly. 
This is a crude example from a very crude play, 
but I think it serves the purpose. 

Explanation too late. If it is bad to put into your 
first act a needless situation of this kind, it is al- 
most as mistaken to put into the second or later 
acts matters which should find place in the first. If 
one is reading a book, one has time to stop and think 
and wonder why certain people are brought forward. 
In a play the spectator does not pause for this sort 
of guesswork. He is following the story just as it 
is presented by the actors. I think I can better ex- 
plain my meaning by another example. In a play 
read recently, it was the writer's intention to show 
us at the end of the play that a certain character 
was the daughter of the villain. Neither was aware 
of the relationship. It was one of those cases where 
some inkling of the secret should have been imparted 
to the audience. At least their interest in the girl 
should have been aroused in some way. But in this 
instance she was a very minor character, and almost 



THE SCENARIO 121 

to the very moment of the disclosure had moved 
through the piece merely as an accessory; the sur- 
prise, when it came, would have meant little or 
nothing, as the spectators would have hardly been 
aware the girl was in the cast. The denouement 
should have been prepared in Act One. 

Another example of another kind of development. 
It was the case of an irritating heroine. The author 
knew there were reasons for her peculiarities and 
at the end of the play put the explanation into the 
mouth of one of his characters. It was too late. 
An audience would have been watching her for some 
time, and would have formed its own opinion: the 
fair lady was an ill-mannered little cat. Since he 
wished sympathy for his heroine, here was an ex- 
ample of an author's effect going astray because of 
a tardy explanation which came too late to recon- 
cile an audience to her personality. What this ama- 
teur did ignorantly, Bernstein probably did deliber- 
ately in The Secret. Needless to say, his skill par- 
tially glossed over the fault; the novice's blunder 
ruined his play. 

Explanation too early. If one can be too late, 
one can also be a little " too previous." Do not put 
an important situation too early in the play. The 
reason is not so much literary as a matter of feasi- 
bility. Usually for the first five or ten minutes 
after the rise of the curtain the audience is coming 
in, in twos and threes, with necessary commotion 
which distracts the attention. In The Man from 
Home, a play having a long New York run recently, 



122 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

an error of this kind was made. Within three min- 
utes of the opening two important characters had 
a conversation in which was explained a circumstance 
which gave the audience a clue to all that transpired 
later. I know several people who saw the play, who 
never heard certain vital words and explanations in 
that bit of dialogue. In one instance, a totally dif- 
ferent impression was received than the author in- 
tended. Your play must begin at once, but it need 
not begin by leaps and bounds. Had that conver- 
sation been delayed, say five minutes, it would have 
made certain matters much clearer. The play, how- 
ever, was a big success because of a certain ines- 
capable charm which even this error could not 
mar. 

The opening scene. Repetition has practically 
killed a one-time popular method of opening the 
play. Seven out of ten of the old-fashioned plays 
used to begin with a scene between a butler or a 
footman, and a pert chambermaid. In fact, in the 
days of the traveling star and the resident stock 
company, so frequent were such parts as the latter 
that a " singing chambermaid " — possibly equiva- 
lent to the soubrette of later days — was a member of 
the forces. The scene was usually a comedy love- 
scene. Daily, one picks up plays by novices with 
this stereotyped opening. It is so stereotyped in 
these days as to be hopelessly banal. The servant 
problem is so unpleasant a home question that these 
impossible comedians are a needless aggravation, be- 
cause untrue to life. This does not mean that an 



THE SCENARIO 123 

amusing, sometimes important scene is not often 
written around the serving band of a household. But 
if you ring your curtain up on a cheap and unneces- 
sary love-scene between two of them, it must be done 
with great skill to avoid the accusation of staleness. 



CHAPTER XII 
MORE ABOUT THE SCENARIO 

THE EXPOSITION INTRODUCTION OF THE CHARAC- 
TERS LOOSE ENDS ENTR'ACTES SCENES CLI- 
MAX ACT CLIMAXES BLIND-ALLEYS THE SEEN 

AND THE UNSEEN SIDE OF THE STORY RIGHT SE- 
LECTION RETARDED ACTION THE ENDING 

WORK ON THE SCENARIO 

The exposition. To present the story of a play 
properly, it is necessary that the audience should 
learn all about that portion of the plot which has 
taken place before the play itself begins. There 
are certain matters in the past needful to our com- 
prehension of the present. These matters must be 
presented to the audience without the impression be- 
ing given that the author is talking or giving infor- 
mation. In the strictly formal drama all this infor- 
mation was massed in the first act ; Scribe put much of 
it in the earliest scenes. To-day this exposition is 
scattered as needed throughout the drama. Even 
with this license, however, most of it falls naturally 
into the first act, by which fact we may assume 
this to be its proper place. If a better effect is ob- 
tained by delaying any piece of information until 
later, the place where it is most valuable is the place 
where it belongs. But to a great degree the first 

124 



MORE ABOUT THE SCENARIO 125 

act shows us just who the characters are and in 
what relation they stand to each other. This is cor- 
rect, since the spectators want to know. Skill makes 
it possible to tell all of this by seemingly sponta- 
neous and natural dialogue and action. The 
dramatist " seems to take the spectators in medias 
res while he is building the foundation of his 
plot." Note how this is done in the two appended 
scenarios. 

Introduction of the characters. Bring on your 
several characters as nearly as possible in their 
proper places. When you begin to write the play 
itself, you may change this all about. You must 
feel free to do so. I want to again remind you 
that this first scenario is never arbitrary. It con- 
tains your working idea, and however incomplete it 
may be, it is almost impossible to work without it. 
It is especially helpful in separating and keeping 
distinct your characters. Whether originally they 
caused, or were the result of, your story, they are 
now your means of telling it. 

For instance, let us take the suggested skeleton- 
plot. Since in Act Three your lovers are to be recon- 
ciled, you must be sure that your audience wants that 
reconciliation. In other words, your lovers must 
appear to be two people who to the average mind 
belong together. From the beginning, the audience 
must be glad to have them meet, sorry to have them 
separate, rejoice to see them happy again. It seems 
simple, does it not? Of course, if the quarrel con- 
tains the argument of your play— for instance, that 



126 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

lovers should not quarrel over trifles — you may han- 
dle it so that the unnecessary quarrel contains a 
salutary lesson. But bear in mind your conclusion: 
they are to be reconciled. Therefore, no matter 
how violent the quarrel, the audience must want to 
see them reunited. The reason for this desire may 
be that the reconciliation may mean justice to some- 
one wronged; it need not necessarily be the feeling 
that both deserve happiness. But for whatever rea- 
son, if your audience does not care whether Mary 
and John " make-up," something is wrong. Take 
as an example a quarrel worked out in this man- 
ner: a third character is Tom, who also loves Mary. 
You intend the curtain to fall on Mary and John 
together, with Tom out of it all. Suppose in writ- 
ing your play, you make John from the very be- 
ginning so aggressive and didactic in his manner to 
Mary that you arouse the indignation of the spec- 
tators, who are really glad when Mary turns from 
him. If in addition you have made Tom attractive, 
how are you going to satisfy the audience with your 
predetermined finale? If your argument happens 
to be that men should have better manners, then your 
play can contain a lesson on politeness. But there 
is Tom. We do not want to have to be sorry for 
Tom, so something must be planned to keep us from 
spoiling our pleasure in John's good luck by thoughts 
of Tom's disappointment. Do you see what I mean 
by always keeping the conclusion in mind from the 
very start? The example is not even an interesting 
story, but it will serve the point. 



MORE ABOUT THE SCENARIO 127 

Loose ends. Sometimes, even in a strong play, 
many loose ends have been left showing, many ques- 
tions left unanswered. It is a fault, however suc- 
cessful the play may be, causing it to fall into the 
category of plays which succeed in spite of faults. 
If at a certain point in your story you feel strongly 
that a criticism is possible or probable, it is a good 
maxim to " say it first." Anticipate wherever you 
can any questions as to why your characters did 
the things you have made them do. I do not think 
I can make the matter any clearer just here; if it 
is not plain now, it will be when you are revising your 
first transcript. 

Entr'actes. Bernard Shaw in Getting Married has 
made an attempt at writing a long play without any 
division into acts. There are two reasons why this 
is not a desirable move. In many cases, if the 
leading players have had strenuous or difficult scenes, 
the entr'acte gives a breathing space, a period of 
rest. Since the actors frequently have moments dur- 
ing an act when they are not on the stage, and 
can therefore rest, the other reason is perhaps more 
important. To compel an audience to sit for two 
hours without intermission is putting something of 
a strain on nerves and endurance. For the present, 
at least, the division into acts is an excellent arrange- 
ment not to be lightly upset. Remember I am refer- 
ring to long plays intended to furnish an evening's 
entertainment of two hours or more. A play of such 
length without act-divisions would be more than likely 
to be either boring or fatiguing to any audience. 



128 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

However, Mr. Shaw's play was produced with a divi- 
sion into acts. 

I have spoken frequently of " scenes " in a scena- 
rio. A scene is any situation or grouping in a play 
— the bricks of which your drama is constructed. 
The arrangement and sequence of these are no more 
arbitrary than the scenario itself. In your scenario 
there may be marked divisions between scenes. This 
is more apparent than real. In the French dramas, 
these divisions are set down in the manuscript, with 
the result that we have an act containing a dozen 
or so numbered scenes. In English and American 
dramas, a scene numbered in the MS. means the fall 
of the curtain. 

The scenario division into scenes is for your own 
guidance — a part of the machinery. When welded 
together in the writing of your play, these scenes 
must dovetail by natural transitions, and all sense 
of marked division between them must be eliminated. 
I speak of this at such length because the habit 
of numbering scenes in a play manuscript has strange 
results for the novice. An original transcript of 
a first play was separated in this way by the writer 
and the ending of one scene and commencement of 
the next were in many instances so abrupt as to give 
an impression of a complete shift of interest. The 
succeeding scene would not begin exactly where its 
predecessor left off. The moment all these scene- 
numbers were excised, the author saw his error very 
clearly and the necessary transitions were writ- 
ten in. 



MORE ABOUT THE SCENARIO 129 

I wrote a little way back of the three-act play be- 
ing a little more symmetrical than any other division. 
Do not carry this desire for symmetry into the 
length of your acts. I have known novices to try 
to have each act of equal length, with the result 
that " padding " was plainly evident to fill out the 
necessary number of pages. If it happens to come 
out that way, all right; but to do it purposely is 
the sheerest folly. Only a 'novice would make the 
attempt. 

Sometimes it is necessary to divide an act into 
scenes by dropping the curtain, to show the pas- 
sage of time — scene two supposedly taking place 
several minutes or hours later than scene one, and 
in the same place; or a change of scenery may be 
necessary in this scene-division. The latter is allow- 
able, but no longer frequent, except in some of the 
big melodramas, especially in the Drury Lane im- 
portations like The Whip and others. Do not be 
afraid to use it if your play cannot exist without it. 
Otherwise, avoid it. If the division should require 
a change of scenery, it is not advisable in a first 
play, as every shift of scenery entails extra expense 
on the producer. 

This matter of a regard for the expense of a 
production is at present a necessary aspect of the 
theater; it has its disadvantageous side. Many a 
play of really dramatic worth has missed production 
because it would cost too much. There are certain 
managers willing to take this risk, because of the 
opportunity to display the artistic skill required. 



130 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

But rarely are these heavy and expensive produc- 
tions the work of an unknown writer. The cost and 
not the worth of the play has been the reason for 
its non-production. In fact, after a glance at the 
manuscript, finding himself not only faced by an 
unknown name but many scenes as well, it is doubt- 
ful if the play would even be read. 

Climax. The climax of your play is the climax of 
your story. It does not always follow as a law, but 
as a general thing in most well-constructed plays 
this climax seems to come either toward the end 
of next-to-the-last act or early in the last act. The 
remainder of the play is the solution or " untying of 
the knot.'' In the suggested plot the climax would 
be the quarrel and separation. Each act has its 
climax also, and on this climax it is best to drop the 
curtain. A manager may say to a writer : " All your 
curtains are good," or, " That second-act curtain is 
bad." He of course refers not to the actual curtain, 
but to the scene on which it falls. 

Do you remember the serial stories in your child- 
ish magazines ? The " to be continued in our next " 
always came at some point that left you eager and 
even impatient for the next number. Your curtain 
climaxes should as nearly as possible partake of that 
" to be continued " aspect. They must not be abrupt 
or " cut-off," but logical, with a thread left loose 
to be carried into the next act. 

" Bought and Paid For." Bought and Paid For 
will serve as an example. At the close of Act 
Three, the husband and wife have a violent quarrel, 



MORE ABOUT THE SCENARIO 131 

at the end of which she leaves the house, declaring 
she will never return until he makes a certain prom- 
ise. They love each other, but both are very proud, 
and the man resents her demand of a promise. Many 
dramatists would have brought down the curtain 
on this climax— the angry, hurt wife gone, the 
equally hurt but proud husband left alone. But this 
climax would have held the thought that the hus- 
band did not really love his' wife, and though we 
might feel that a reconciliation was inevitable in 
Act Four, still our feeling would not be kindly to- 
ward the husband who had certainly up to that point 
been in the wrong. So Mr. Broadhurst untied a lit- 
tle thread, a connecting link to carry a tender thought 
of both mistaken young people over to the final 
act. As the door closes on the wife, the husband is 
left standing for an instant. Then he hurries to 
a telephone and quickly calls a detecftive bureau. 
The few words spoken assure us that, though the 
wife has left his home, he means still to watch and 
protect her; the detective is to be at hand to shield 
her from any annoyance which may come on her 
return to earning her own living. 

Blind-alleys. In telling your story, do not open 
up " blind-alleys." This can be done in numberless 
ways besides the very obvious one of wandering in 
the story. Occasionally these blind-alley openings 
are bits of business. Two examples will explain. In 
an unproduced play the writer had indicated a tele- 
phone, which was answered within a booth out of 
hearing of the audience. In his manuscript this 



132 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

meant nothing; it was merely a bit of office atmos- 
phere. There are places in any play where such 
" atmosphere " would be entirely legitimate. In 
this case it was an actual blind-alley. The stage was 
empty save for one important character. It was in 
the middle of the play, and in the midst of impor- 
tant affairs ; a sudden bell in such a place should 
suggest drama, " something doing." Anyone hear- 
ing would say, " Ah ! What's going to happen 
now? " and would wait expectantly to learn. In 
this case nothing happened: it was only the ubiqui- 
tous telephone with an unknown person at the other 
end. False hopes raised in the spectators, and a 
blind-alley clue. 

The other example is from Kindling, a successful, 
really big play. I saw it three times and each time 
this point had the same effect on me. Heinie, the 
hero, is talking to one of the other characters. His 
wife is seated a trifle apart, tired, her arm resting 
on the sill of a partly-open window. The wife is 
in the picture, really the center of interest, so there 
is no need of calling our attention to her. Sud- 
denly, while talking, Heinie interrupts himself to 
say to his wife : " Don't sit there at that window ; 
you'll catch cold. Better close it." Then he re- 
turns to his conversation, while Maggie shuts the 
window. It happens that the episode is entirely 
unimportant, so that whenever I saw it I had not 
recalled it, which accounts for the fact that each 
time the hero uttered these words I received the 
same impression that our attention was being drawn 



MORE ABOUT THE SCENARIO 133 

to this window for some dramatic purpose, later to be 
explained. Each time I was disappointed. 

Finally, on reading the play, I discovered the rea- 
son. It was to give the wife an excuse for closing 
the window and drawing the shade, so that later a 
detective could be discovered hiding outside. From 
the audience's standpoint, this detective is only of 
interest because he blocks one r egress. The principal 
detective enters through the door, where the dramatic 
attention is consequently centered. We already knew 
the window could be used, for Steve has made his 
escape that way. Therefore, the speech was un- 
necessary, and because of its effect, an actual, though 
unconscious, blind-alley. Reading it, with the play- 
wright's business directions in front of us to explain, 
we do not feel so strongly the interruption. Seen, 
in the theater, the speech divides attention in a way 
to arouse expectations of something dramatic at 
the window without fulfilling them. Incidentally, the 
preceding, in a marked degree, points the difference 
between the eyes and mental attitude of the reader 
and those of the spectator. 

The seen and the unseen side. Be sure when turn- 
ing your story into a scenario that you have selected 
for stage presentation the most vital and dramatic 
aspects of the subject. This is true whether you are 
dealing with tragedy or comedy. You may have 
a truly thrilling story and by using the wrong sit- 
uations to express it utterly fail to make it dramatic. 
This power of right selection is a quality of the 
dramatic instinct. It is frequently a matter of 



134 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

emphasis ; it may rest on the wrong character, as set 
forth in the example given in the chapter on char- 
acters, or it may lie with the presentation of a 
situation. I am often impressed with the two aspects 
of a play, which I may call the seen and unseen sides. 
The unseen would be all those matters which reach 
the spectator as information of past or present 
events, but not actually taking place on the stage; 
the seen would, of course, be those situations and 
characters presented to the eye. Plays so often 
reach the critic in which the complete story is in 
the manuscript, but the parts which should be action 
are given as information, and vice versa; situations 
which would be dramatic, properly presented, occur 
off-stage and are merely described. Sometimes a 
play should begin where the writer's manuscript ends. 
I saw a striking example of this in a one-act play 
which had an interesting and dramatic story as its 
base. The writer had spread his exposition all 
over the play to the curtain, when as a matter of 
fact the result of this exposition was the real drama 
of his plot. There are some things which expedi- 
ency demands shall take place off-stage and be- 
tween the acts. I have no reference to such situa- 
tions. I am dealing only with the mistaken choice 
between the seen and unseen aspects. It is one of 
those things you will learn to judge and balance 
best by writing and keeping at it. In Kindling, as 
an example, Maggie's share in Steve's burglary is 
a most important part of the plot. Some dramatists 
might have considered it one of the episodes to be 



MORE ABOUT THE SCENARIO 135 

" seen " by the audience. Mr. Kenyon was wiser. 
To see the heroine steal is one thing, but it is more 
important dramatically to know why she stole, and 
the result of the act. Therefore, the reason, and 
the result, have been made the " seen " side of the 
play, while the stealing is the " unseen " side, occur- 
ring between acts. 

Also, among the situations which belong on the 
" seen " or action side of the play is the one which 
the great French critic, Sarcey, called the seine a 
faire — that is, the situation which is so vital to the 
plot that the audience has a right to expect to see 
it really presented, and not slurred over and merely 
talked about. I like Victor Hugo's very human way 
of putting it : " Grave personages, placed like a Greek 
chorus between us and the drama, come to tell us 
what is taking place in the temple, in the palace, in 
the public place, until we are tempted to call out to 
them : ' Truly ? Then, why do you not take us there ? 
It must be amusing, it must be well worth seeing ! ' ' 

Retarded action. I wish to say just a few words 
at this point regarding a misconception, or rather 
misinterpretation of an expression which play- 
wrights fully understand but which, because of this 
misunderstanding on the part of the novice, causes 
trouble to him in a first play when he tries to apply 
it. Two standard books on play-construction speak, 
the one, of " retardation of action," the other, of 
" suspended tension." Now, this retardation or sus- 
pension takes on the nature of " the sword of 
Damocles," as Archer expresses it. But in an ama- 



136 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

teurish effort to " retard " or " suspend " action, the 
novice all too frequently completely sidetracks it. 
This sidetracking thus becomes mere " padding." 
You will see references to this again. But in plan- 
ning your scenario, see to it that in holding back in- 
formation or crises until more dramatic moments you 
do not become so entirely irrelevant as to completely 
stop the action. There must always be an undercur- 
rent. We often speak of points in a play where 
the action drops. These are usually points at which 
some maladroit writer endeavored to retard, and, 
instead, came to a dead stop. Turn again to the 
scenarios A and B, and note how action is dra- 
matically suspended or delayed. 

The ending. And now for your play's conclusion. 
I have said you must keep this ending always in 
mind. It is a maxim of good writing in any field. 
Brander Matthews makes this statement: "The pla} 7 
itself is what counts, not the way it is made to end." 
Very few writers or dramatists agree with this state- 
ment. It is his working out, his solution of the 
problem, which makes his play worth while. Every- 
thing which led up to it is here capped with the 
writer's best reason for writing his play — the way 
out of the difficulties he has himself brought to pass. 
In the " slice of life " drama we see what might be 
called a temporary ending. It may be unhappy, but 
just as unhappy moments in life are followed by 
brighter ones, so this " temporary " ending is not 
the actual catastrophe. It usually, however, fore- 
shadows the true ending. When enough has been 



MORE ABOUT THE SCENARIO 137 

shown for the spectator to draw his own conclusions 
and deduce his moral, the curtain descends. It is 
not an easy type of play for the novice to attempt. 
And the usual audience is better satisfied with some 
sort of real finale, all the loose ends tied up, the 
questions answered. It is no longer the custom, how- 
ever, to have all the happy couples strung around 
the stage in loving groups for the final curtain. In 
the beautiful curtain to Shore Acres the curtain falls 
on an empty stage. In The Man from Home we do 
not even see the lovers together. Pike is standing 
alone, when through the open windows of the hotel 
come the strains of " Sweet Genevieve." He lifts 
his face suddenly, then moves swiftly to the door 
of the hotel parlor, and disappears as the curtain 
falls. We know who is at the piano, and the thought 
of that meeting is almost better than seeing it. 
In Cousin Kate, Brian holds out his arm to Kate, smil- 
ingly offering his escort to dinner. As she takes it, 
with " Sure, and I will," in a tender imitation of his 
brogue, only the happy voices and the fact that both 
her hands rest on his arm show the undercurrent. 
There is an effort to make the ending not only in- 
evitable, but natural, and either mentally or emo- 
tionally satisfying. 

You have been advised to bear the ending always 
in mind, and yet not to " let the machinery creak." 
Here again practice and your instinct will help. If 
the ending is too plainly seen from too mechanical 
handling of the plot, the audience becomes merely 
the spectator who is rather bored because he knows 



138 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

just what is going to happen. Of course, you may 
say that people see a favorite play more than once. 
So they do. And they read a favorite book more 
frequently than that. But it is always because the 
first reading was so pleasantly full of well-managed 
surprises and cumulative interest. We never read 
the too obvious book or see the too obvious play the 
second time unless there is some personal reason, 
like re-reading some pleasing passage, or watching 
some favorite actor. 

Work on the scenario. Now, before starting in 
on your dialogue, live with your scenario for a while. 
Let the story become real to you. Then forget it, 
if you can, in something else. When you go back 
to it again, you will bring a fresh point of view. 
I have known people to work, and plan, and revise 
a scenario for a year and more before one word of 
actual dialogue has been set down. Sometimes an 
important scene may be sketched in, but no more. 
The scenario is the body — skeletonf blood, and sinew 
— of your play. The dialogue is only the dress. 

Before beginning this part of the work, go over 
the scenario carefully. See that your situations are 
not so arranged that you have simply a series of 
dialogues ; or since we call all that is spoken in a 
play the dialogue, we will call a scene between two 
people a duologue. A series of duologue scenes would 
be as follows: Two people are talking; one exits, an- 
other enters. The two on the stage talk, then the 
first exits and another enters. Again two are left 
talking. Unless the conversation is actively dramatic, 



MORE ABOUT THE SCENARIO 139 

and the exits and entrances rapid, as in a war-play, 
where the several duologues may be between officers 
or conspirators, such an arrangement is apt to grow 
tiresome through its lack of variety. It frequently 
happens in a novice's play, because of a fault spoken 
of earlier — the too sharp division between scenes. 
But, since we are ready for dialogue and duologues, 
we will discuss them in their proper place. 



CHAPTER XIII 

WRITING THE PLAY: THE DIALOGUE AND 
ACTION 

DUOLOGUES BROKEN SENTENCES GETTING INFOR- 
MATION TO THE AUDIENCE PLATONIC AND SO- 

CRATIC DIALOGUE DISCUSSIONS AND ARGUMENTS 

NARRATIVES LOCAL COLOR DIALECT TECHNI- 
CAL PHRASEOLOGY 

In the last chapter we considered the planning of 
the scenario in such a way as not to have the opening 
scenes a series of duologues, and also learned why: 
which brings us by a natural transition to the actual 
writing of these scenes. 

Duologues. The advice is only against a tiresome 
series; many times in the progress of a play you 
will have recourse to duologue, or dialogue between 
two people. This is legitimate. But a long scene 
in which two people sit or stand and merely tell 
each other things which could be better presented 
in another form is out of place in the theater. A 
play made up of such situations, one following an- 
other, is a badly constructed play. 

A duologue of any length at all must be very 
dramatic or interesting, full of action in the play- 
writer's sense. Even if the conversation or argu- 
ment appears quiet, there must be something — an 

140 



THE DIALOGUE AND ACTION 141 

undercurrent — which keeps the play moving in the 
mind of your audience. In Henri Bernstein's The 
Thief is an act of nearly forty-five minutes, in which 
appear only two characters, the man and his wife. 
The act is one of ever-increasing drama and in- 
tensity, until the curtain. It is a masterpiece in 
its way. Again, in Mrs. Dane's Defense, by Henry 
Arthur Jones, we have a similar scene between the 
Judge and Mrs. Dane — one of harrowing interest, 
as the woman is caught in one lie after another, 
and finally breaks down. In Bernstein's Israel is a 
scene between mother and son of considerable length 
and power, one which puts great strain on the act- 
ing abilities of both players. These three exam- 
ples will point what I mean by " dramatic, full of 
action." 

As you begin your dialogue and the actual use of 
the play-form, never let one important fact escape 
you. Your play will be presented solely by the 
actions, manner, and speech of actors. Not a word 
of yours, except what may legitimately find place in 
the printed bill of the play, will reach the public 
through any other medium. 

The "lines." All that the actors speak in the 
course of a play is known to the profession as " the 
lines." An actor " studies his lines," he " forgets 
his lines," or, more colloquially, " goes up in his 
lines," et cetera. By the " lines of a play " is meant, 
therefore, what the laity calls the dialogue. 

In modern drama, these lines are as nearly like 
the language of everyday people as the writer's skill 



142 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

will allow. The difference between what one writer 
calls " conversational sloppiness " and good dra- 
matic dialogue is a very strong dividing line between 
tyro and expert. The latter writes as people talk, 
but he always " picks up his sentence by the right 
end." That is because entirely natural speech may 
become prosy or incoherent. Unless the tedium or 
incoherence have value for the plot, no dramatist 
desires either the one or the other in his play. Al- 
most everyone who writes can give a fair imitation 
of the conversation of a number of people collected 
together at one place. Almost anyone can present 
such a conversation in an entirely natural manner. 
But when each sentence, each movement, however 
natural it may appear, is in reality carrying the 
plot directly forward, is in addition showing the 
personality of the character who is moving or speak- 
ing, it is a vastly different affair. 

It is because of this expository, building quality 
of the dialogue that the naturalness of the lines 
is only a seeming. It must appear spontaneous, when 
it is really deliberate. Here, as usual, the " art that 
conceals art " produces the most realistic effect. 

Broken sentences. One very successful method of 
producing a semblance of everyday life is by means 
of broken sentences. That is, a character starts 
to say something, then turns his sentence and re- 
phrases it — a thing real people do every day. It 
gives the impression that the speaker is really talking 
just as the thoughts occur to him instead of voicing 
a cut-and-dried speech carefully studied and re- 



THE DIALOGUE AND ACTION 143 

hearsed. Like all effective methods, it must be used 
properly, and can be easily overdone. A charac- 
ter can interrupt himself or another break in on 
his remarks up to a certain point. Beyond that 
point it grows as tiresome as constant interruptions 
in a real-life conversation. A certain dramatist, who 
much advocated the use of broken sentences as a 
means to conversational realism, so far offended in 
this respect in one of his manuscripts that his people 
gave an impression of positive rudeness. The inter- 
ruptions from other characters could have been 
caused only by ill-breeding in real life. The writer 
himself was far from being either boorish or care- 
less ; he merely had carried a good thing too far. 

Getting information to the audience. Writers 
often struggle with this effort to be entirely natural 
while wasting no unnecessary time in getting infor- 
mation to the audience. George M. Cohan graph- 
ically describes such a struggle. " In the third act 
of Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford I had placed Wal- 
lingford in his office, and at the opening of the 
act I wanted Judge Lambert, his attorney, to come 
in and tell him that he, the lawyer, had just re- 
ceived a call from the Board of Directors of the 
Tack Company, and that they had just left his 
office with the avowed intention of coming there (to 
Wallingford) to denounce the promoter. The prob- 
lem of explaining the presence of the attorney in 
Wallingford's office in advance of the directors who 
had started ahead of him, and doing it without tak- 
ing up time, kept me guessing for one whole night 



144 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

and the best part of the next day, when I solved 
it by making Lambert say : ' Yes, they left my office 
five minutes ago, but I took the short-cut through 
Pearl Street.' " 

There you have it: a whole explanation in one 
short, simple sentence, in keeping with the char- 
acter and the situation, seemingly spontaneous, yet 
costing this author many hours of anxious thought. 

On the other hand, in the work of the novice we 
have the following result: This author realized that 
it was necessary for the audience to know that his 
heroine was possessed of broad sympathies, since 
much turned on the fact. Here was a case where 
this characteristic could be developed in several dif- 
ferent ways, since it was part of the plot and neces- 
sary to our understanding. Thus far, the author was 
right ; he felt the necessity for the information. But, 
instead of showing it with seeming naturalness, he 
chose a method out of keeping with the woman's posi- 
tion and dignity, with the situation, or with reality, 
because he tried to do it in one or two sentences, 
where the point was of sufficient consequence for 
larger development. Though the wife of an im- 
portant official, and duly impressed with her hus- 
band's importance (she always spoke of him by his 
title), her creator permitted her to practically ask 
a poor suppliant — a woman of whom she knew noth- 
ing, whom she had never seen before — to call her by 
her Christian name within a few speeches of their 
meeting. Here was a psychologically wrong method 
used with most commendable intention; with all the 



THE DIALOGUE AND ACTION 145 

character's benevolence, she was a society woman and 
probably used to being addressed, even by old ac- 
quaintances, by her married name. What she was 
called was a point that really would not have counted 
with her at all. Emphasis on it conveyed another 
impression than the author wished. 

Platonic dialogue. Since the lines must be en- 
tirely pertinent to the subject of your play, two 
methods in frequent use among amateurs are to 
be decried. Play dialogue is not a series of sim- 
ple questions and answers along the lines of the 
old Platonic and Socratic methods of imparting 
knowledge. Dialogue is conversation between ordi- 
nary human beings so arranged by the writer as to 
tell his story. Not that a series of questions and 
answers may not be intensely dramatic — especially 
if the person questioned is answering against his 
will — not that, if dramatic or effective, it is anything 
but legitimate and proper. When compatible with 
human procedure, it is all these. But many writers 
have an idea that if they have written something 
which is told in dialogue form — first one person 
speaking, then another — the result is a play. It is 
no more dramatic than any student's book of ques- 
tions and answers. A novice's play, with a big story, 
was told almost entirely by this method. Five or 
six of the characters sat around while they asked 
each other questions, which drew from the questioned 
the answers which informed the audience of what 
had taken place, what was taking place, and what 
might, could, or would take place. All of the char- 



146 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

acters knew the answers as well as the interrogator, 
but " Clarence, tell us again what happened yester- 
day," was followed by Clarence's account, and 
so on, ad nauseam. The effect was precisely 
that of a teacher and her class at a recitation 
in history. 

Discussions and arguments. An audience hates 
to feel it is being taught something ; instruction must 
be administered in homeopathic doses. A discussion 
which has a definite point in the mind of your audi- 
ence may sometimes be used to advantage. That 
is for you to judge. It must be interesting and 
not too long. Incidentally, beware of riding any 
hobby by such means. If you have a hobby, dress it 
up, disguise it, be subtle. In any case, use such meth- 
ods sparingly. Which brings us to the other fault 
mentioned, the permitting of entirely irrelevant dis- 
cussions in the course of the dialogue. One play 
to which reference has already been made was " pad- 
ded " to make it of proper length by one such dis- 
cussion or debate in each one of the five acts. When 
the one in the first act was read — it was a racy, 
humorous description of a scene in the Orient — the 
reader felt sure that there was a dramatic purpose 
in the episode; someone sooner or later would come 
into relation with the anecdote either as to place or 
time — but it was only an anecdote. No further ref- 
erence was made to it. Now, even an unallied anec- 
dote may have dramatic value, if the telling or 
appreciation of it in any way presents or explains 
a character-personality, or shows the spectator the 



THE DIALOGUE AND ACTION 147 

atmosphere in which those characters move. But this 
one took up several pages of manuscript and, though 
interesting to read, led nowhere. So with each 
succeeding act. Please re-read in this connection 
what has been written on the propaganda play in 
the chapter on the plot. Since discussions are part 
of the dialogue, both anecdote and propaganda argu- 
ments belong under this heading, and are to be han- 
dled with equal care and discretion. 

Narratives. The narrative form is fast dropping 
out of modern plays. The excited description of a 
horse-race — after it is over — has been done to death. 
To-day, if such descriptions are necessary, they are 
given while the race is going on — off-stage — by some- 
one supposedly watching it. Descriptions of past 
events, when absolutely necessary, are given dra- 
matically, but as briefly, simply, and naturally as 
possible. 

By means of the lines and action, you are telling 
your story. Be sure all of that story is transferred 
from your mind to the play. I have said that be- 
fore, but now is the time, these are the means, by 
which you will do it. It is not at all infrequent 
for a scenario to present a better drama than the 
finished play. One such scenario recently won a 
prize in a competition. It was both novel and lively. 
The play fell down badly in one or two places — 
places where the scenario held its own — almost 
as if two different people had written the one 
and the other. Yet the same brain constructed 
both. 



148 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

Ensemble. There may be places in a play where 
the author wishes several characters to speak at once, 
or where the cries of a mob are indicated by various 
suggested shouts. These we might call ensemble 
speeches ; the intention of their use is to give the 
" ragged " or incoherent effect of excitement. In 
such cases, the author may suggest the character 
of these exclamations or shouts by writing a number 
of them out in this fashion : " Cries of * Well, I 
never ! ' ' Who ever heard of such a thing ! ' 4 Non- 
sense ! ' and the like, are heard from the group " — 
leaving to the stage-director the interpolation of 
other kindred expressions. In all other cases, the 
speeches must be written out in full. 

Left to the imagination. Plays by the novice fre- 
quently err in this direction. They are written as 
if in the old days of " Polichinelle " and the strolling 
players, when general directions were given, and the 
characters entered, made up their own lines, keeping 
them in character, yet varying them with the dif- 
ferent audiences and players. I have read whole 
scenes blocked in in this manner — not in the scenario, 
where the method would be correct, but in the fin- 
ished play supposedly ready for production. 

Also, such a direction as the following will be 
given, " Goes to the telephone and talks," when the 
telephone is indicated as being in sight and hear- 
ing of the audience, and no one else is on the stage. 
There are times when to do this in " dumb-show " 
is correct ; but someone will have to write the conver- 
sation — if it is meant to be heard. It might just as 



THE DIALOGUE AND ACTION 149 

well be the author, and the lines should, of course, 
be pertinent to the matter in hand. 

There is all the difference in the world between 
this neglect and what might seem a similar stage- 
direction in The Woman. But, in the latter case, 
the silent conversation has a constructive reason. 
The man enters a telephone-booth, and before shut- 
ting the door, asks the operator to remove the head- 
piece so that not even she can hear him. The pause 
is very brief but dramatic, because while the audi- 
ence knows in a general way what he is saying, 
there is suspense in the fact that the person to whom 
he is speaking is part of the mystery. As you see, 
the stage-instructions might have been similar to those 
with which I have found fault. But the actor's lines 
regarding secrecy make it not even a parallel case; 
the conversation is not intended for the audience. 

Local color, and dialect. One more suggestion 
before we get down to the actual speeches and their 
relation to the characters. This has reference to 
local color and dialect. The latter is better under- 
stood if not too exact in its resemblance to the 
original. A Scotchman playing a Scotch part in 
The Little Minister told me that if he were really 
to break loose in the actual dialect which he was 
supposed to be using, not ten people — supposing 
there were so many native Scots in the audience — 
would know what he was talking about. He got 
his effect more by his accent than by any real 
dialect. 

But, aside from dialect, there are other matters 



150 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

in regard to presenting local color which must be 
taken into consideration : the use of slang words and 
sentences which are unintelligible outside of their 
own place. A sample from a play will explain. The 
word strike in mining localities has reference to a 
discovery of ore : the miner has " made a strike," 
and talks of a " pay-strike," et cetera. It so hap- 
pens that the more usual understanding of the word 
is associated with labor agitations. Therefore, when 
a dramatist has a character speak of the " strike " 
in the Daisy Mine, the layman is a little uncertain 
as to which is meant, since either might be the cause 
of excitement. Now, the dramatist mu^t not offend 
any miners who may slip into his audiences, and if 
there is no other word possible under the circum- 
stances, strike he must use. But it must rest in such 
a context and among such incidents as to leave no 
doubt in the auditor's mind, unless drama rests on 
that very point — the misunderstanding of the two 
meanings. 

Always remember in presenting a play of strongly 
local color that if it is successful, it will be presented 
in cities far from its playground. You must carry 
that local color to each of those cities ; but you must 
also make allowances for the fact that a majority of 
your auditors will know nothing of the place and the 
people, except as you show them. You will not have 
the novelist's advantage of long explanatory de- 
scriptions. 

Technical phraseology. In your audience will be 
people of all kinds of minds and interests. Therefore, 



THE DIALOGUE AND ACTION 151 

you must not only be careful in the use of local 
color and dialect, but in the employment of expres- 
sions too technical in form to be understood by any- 
one not accustomed to their use. If your play is 
written around Wall Street, for instance, use enough 
of the phraseology of the Street to color your play, 
and give it atmosphere ; but do not bury it in ticker- 
tape, or else numbers of people, especially women not 
interested in stock speculation — and they make up 
the major part of our audiences — will be at a loss 
as to your full meaning. It is apt to be so in any 
subject upon which you may be an enthusiast. You 
let the theme run away with you, forgetting the 
uninitiated. Write your play around what subject 
you wish, but remember those of us unfamiliar with 
it, and so present it in character and language that 
all will understand. An example outside the theater 
will point my moral. Two men were to lecture — > 
to two different audiences — concerning a certain 
piece of machinery, the invention of one of them. 
These audiences were composed of men interested in 
the purposes for which the machinery was to be 
used, but of all trades and professions. The in- 
ventor was an engineer of wide technical knowledge, 
his education along these lines covering study abroad 
as well as at home. The other knew this piece of 
machinery by practical association with it, and a 
thorough working knowledge of its uses. He had 
never so much as looked inside of an institute of 
technology. But, when it came to the lectures, the 
engineer was almost unintelligible to his audience, 



152 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

so academic were his explanations, so purely technical 
his expressions. The other man was simplicity itself. 
His audience understood, because his lecture, of ne- 
cessity, was free of phrases incomprehensible to the 
layman. 



, CHAPTER XIV 
FORM OF DIALOGUE 

THE SOLILOQUY THE ASIDE FACIAL EXPRESSION 

PANTOMIME SPEECHES SUITED TO CHARACTERS 

ACTIONS SUITED TO CHARACTERS DESCRIPTIONS 

OF ONE CHARACTER BY OTHERS SPEECHES EASY 

OF RENDITION LITERARY SPEECHES COMEDY 

LINES LONG SPEECHES 

Two once popular methods of imparting informa- 
tion to an audience, the soliloquy and the aside, have 
of late years dropped into almost complete disuse. 
In the chapter on the Theater you were told why the 
method was once so popular: the audience was actu- 
ally on the stage with the players. 

The soliloquy and the aside. With the exception 
of some sudden exclamation, people in real life do 
not " think out loud " as a general rule, unless there 
is something the matter with them. Always bear 
in mind the fact that you must have your actors talk 
and behave in your play as the characters would 
speak and act were they alive. Your audience plays 
an important part in your drama, but its part is a 
mental one. A modern audience prefers to see its 
actors think, rather than hear them. It may require 
more facial expression, it is certainly more difficult 

153 



154 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

for the player, but it is more nearly like life. In 
that excellent play, The New Sin, " Hilary Cutts " 
receives a letter, which he reads when alone in his 
sitting-room. This occurs in Act Four, which is 
not contained in the published edition, but was added 
for American production. Not so much as an ex- 
clamation escapes him, but we know from the expres- 
sion of his face, and the comfortable way in which 
he settles back in his chair after he has finished it 
and put it in his pocket, that it has contained good 
news. Later on, in its proper place, we learn the 
actual contents of the letter. Of course, it was a 
case where the dramatist had to put his faith in what 
the actor would do with the scene. But recall Alfred 
Sutro's remark in an earlier chapter in regard to 
the relationship of actor and author: the dramatist 
must trust the actor with work worth while. 

The audience is no longer directly addressed by 
the characters, except in the various forms of musical 
pieces, from grand opera to burlesque. Anything 
you want the audience to know must be told to some 
other member of the cast. 

Clayton Hamilton makes a very apt distinction in 
soliloquies, dividing them into constructive and re- 
flective. The former are used by the unskillful writer 
to help tell the story or explain some missing factor 
which the author feels he cannot get " over " any 
other way. The reflective soliloquy, on the other 
hand, used carefully, has its place and is humanly 
and dramatically possible. In real life there might 
be some tense situation in which a person would not 



FORM OF DIALOGUE 155 

be his entirely sane self and would be more than likely 
to talk his thoughts half audibly. It would be more 
akin to muttering than actual speech, though it might 
culminate in a viva voce ejaculation; wherever your 
guide is real life you are fairly safe. Or a moment 
or so of silent thought might terminate in an audi- 
ble " I'll do it " or some kindred phrase. Therefore, 
it cannot be said that the soliloquy is absolutely never 
used in modern plays. But that it is used sparingly 
is true; that it requires skill to write with 
complete naturalness is even more true; that an 
unskilled actor is liable to spoil it for you even 
then, because of the difficulty presented in mak- 
ing the unnatural appear the natural, is truest 
of all. As a rule, the best writers avoid it altogether, 
unless for definite dramatic reasons. As always, the 
sudden, half-audible exclamation is exempt from this 
criticism. The reason is simple: the characters in 
the play should be aware only of themselves and 
their problems. They are supposedly unaware that 
their affairs are being watched. Therefore, though 
actually his voice and gestures are adjusted to its 
hearing and sight, the actor must appear utterly ob- 
livious of his audience. A concrete example will illus- 
trate: In Brewster's Millions, Harrison, who has 
been speculating with Brewster's money, enters his 
office to find no one there but the stenographer. He 
goes rapidly to the ticker, picks up the tape, mut- 
tering the figures under his breath. What those fig- 
ures are does not matter. Only the drawn face, the 
trembling hands of the actor tell that the quotations 



156 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

are going the wrong way, and the audience is pre- 
pared for the tense exclamation, " Wiped out ! " as 
Harrison drops the tape and hastily leaves the office. 
Here is a natural, audible aside, spoken in a stage- 
whisper, so that it is easy to imagine the stenog- 
rapher does not hear. The aside, though meant by 
the author for the audience's information, is not 
so intended by the character. We are to suppose the 
exclamation addressed to his own stricken. conscience. 

In the olden days of the drama, Harrison's 
scene would have been so written and played that 
the presence of the girl would have been completely 
ignored, while the actor raved over his losses in 
long emotional speeches, and the audience kindly 
agreed to believe the stenographer stricken tempo- 
rarily deaf, dumb, and blind. 

Since the soliloquy and the aside, incorrectly used, 
are almost invariable faults of the novice, digest the 
comparison carefully. 

An intrusion. Of late, in certain articles, espe- 
cially those written by critics who feel the influence 
of the Continental schools, we find a tendency to pre- 
dict the return of soliloquies to the modern stage. We 
can only hope it is a false alarm. The prediction 
has come about through certain recent revivals in 
which stage-asides to the audience have been used. 
Yet every time they were so used, they intruded, and 
in every case a better way of conveying the infor- 
mation could have been found. It is at best a 
clumsy makeshift, showing that the writer lacked 
the skill to land his point in a more natural way, or 



FORM OF DIALOGUE 157 

at the time of writing his play felt no necessity 
for trying. To be entirely natural, in art, is the 
real difficulty in being artistic. And a long soliloquy, 
no matter how beautiful its language, is an unpar- 
donable intrusion of " fine writing " caused perhaps 
by the author's vanity and his own desire to be in 
his play. A modern actor is not supposed to be play- 
ing before an audience at all ; conscious of its pres- 
ence, he yet must give the impression that he has no 
concern with anything outside the mimic scene he 
is playing. A finely-written rhetorical speech brings 
the character speaking it out of the illusion of his 
part and reminds us he is only acting. The best 
future of the drama does not consist in going 
backward. 

Speeches suited to characters. All the foregoing 
has reference to general directions regardless of the 
nature of the play or its people. It is now assumed 
that your characters are ready to speak for them- 
selves. Your preliminary work on the scenario has 
helped you in this. You are no longer speaking; 
they have become your means of expression and, as 
has been said, must have for you a very real exist- 
ence. It is, therefore, most necessary that no speech 
be given to any character to which that character, 
were he alive, would not give voice. If certain facts 
must be made known to the audience, speeches con- 
cerning them must be given to the right people in 
the play. For example: To emphasize some matters 
you wish presented, you have decided that certain 



158 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

opinions must be uttered by someone, to prepare the 
minds of your audience for those facts. We will 
say that these opinions are worldly-wise, sophisti- 
cated, possibly daring. You would, therefore, put 
the speeches into the mouth of the character most 
likely to hold such opinions — possibly a widow, a 
married woman, certainly one not too young. Also, 
you would have her say them, not to just anyone, but 
to the person most apt to be interested, or in line 
with your plan of development. Unless you have a 
deliberate intention in so doing, it would be psycho- 
logically false to have them repeated by an innocent 
village maiden to her bucolic swain. 

Speeches must also be written after the manner, 
according to the personality, of your created char- 
acter. Take the previous example. If the woman 
who is to speak these lines necessary for your plot 
development is an embittered woman, you would write 
them seriously, with the tang of disappointed hopes. 
If, on the other hand, she happens to be a dashing 
widow — a type dear to the stage — they would be 
written in another tempo, gay, impudent, daring. 

From this you will see that, though these characters 
are your medium, they are not mere mouthpieces for 
your thoughts and ideas. As water takes the shape 
of the vessel which holds it, so these new-born beings 
must give " shape " or form to your thought. If 
they do not, send them to Kipling's Inferno of De- 
parted Creations at once, and create new ones who 
can express your ideas as you wish. Your people 
will then be human and not puppets. 



FORM OF DIALOGUE 159 

Actions suited to characters. Not only the 
speeches but the actions of your people must be in 
harmony with their personality and characteristics. 
If you want someone to leave an important letter 
on top of the upright piano, give the act to some 
character whose carelessness you have established, 
and not to the precise old-maidenish person who 
would not be likely to allow an important paper out 
of his hands, much less place it on anything so 
frivolous as a piano. The exception only proves 
the rule. If you wish to show that our precise gen- 
tleman is for once terribly upset and excited, the 
act mentioned is just about the sort of thing his dis- 
traction would cause him to commit. All of which 
was said in another way in the chapter on the char- 
acters ; it cannot be too often repeated. 

One character described by another. Do not allow 
your people to be described at length by other char- 
acters while the person is not present or has not yet 
made his first appearance. Mark, I say " at length." 
The characters should speak for themselves, and 
remarks made about them by other characters should 
be only enough to arouse our interest or curiosity, 
and should give no sign that such remarks are for 
our information. His actions while on the stage, 
his lines, the attitude toward him of others in the 
cast, all express his personality to much more pur- 
pose than the old-fashioned method. You may even 
hurt your play if you have caused your audiences 
to expect something totally different from the effect 
produced by the actual performance. Why tell 



160 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

us, for instance, of the wonderful courage and 
strength of a character through the mouths of others 
in the play, if he is never given an opportunity to 
display his courage, or the part is played by an actor 
who does not look as if he could push the dining-room 
table across the floor! Such a description might do 
in farce, when the character was obviously not meant 
to live up to it; but in more serious plays all we 
ought to learn about a character from others should 
be just enough to whet our interest. 

Speeches suited to the emotion. If it is necessary 
to suit your speeches to your characters, it is doubly 
necessary to suit those speeches to the emotion. If 
the situation is one of great intensity, what the 
player calls " a good acting scene," the speeches must 
be adequate. (This does not mean that they must be 
rhetorical. You could hardly make a worse dramatic 
error. People in real life, under strong or violent 
emotion, do not pick and choose their words. 

Easy of rendition, ^our phrases and sentences 
should be easy of rendition, so the tongue will not 
trip over them. " She sells sea-shells " is funny in 
its place, but a phrase of equal alliteration in the 
middle of a big emotional scene would spoil it for 
the greatest actor on earth. A good plan is to 
read every sentence in your dialogue aloud as if 
you yourself were speaking to someone else ; a sen- 
tence that does not read with the utmost ease must 
be twisted until it does. You may have to eliminate 
what you consider the gem of the play, but cut it 
out ruthlessly if it is not " talkable." 



FORM OF DIALOGUE 161 

Literary speeches. Of course, you may have a 
character to whom it will be in keeping to give didac- 
tic, " literary " speeches. But the actor who plays 
such a part will, of necessity, render those lines 
slowly. Pedantry in ordinary people is tiresome. A 
certain play had for one of its opening scenes some- 
thing like this : A farmer entered, and began to search 
his pockets for a match, without success. Now, most 
of us can guess what the average farmer would say 
under the circumstances. This was not a bad play, 
and yet that unfortunate man was made to remark: 
" I ever need a match, and yet I ever fail to find 
one." 

A really fine play presented a short time ago in 
New York was ruined because the translator had 
adapted it into University English, and the poor 
actors struggled with words of three and four syl- 
lables through speeches which read like a treatise 
on literature. 

This is one reason why a play which acts well very 
often does not read well, and the reverse. And the 
test of a play is its acting quality. One has to 
mentally act it to get its effect, and this takes 
experience ; which is why, as has been said, one's non- 
professional friends are such incompetent critics of 
a play-manuscript. If it reads well, they think it a 
good play; on the contrary, from the theatrical 
standpoint, it may be a very bad one. 

Comedy lines. If emotional scenes can be spoiled 
by unemotional speeches, or speeches not quite equal 
to the scene, comedy is ruined by " uncomic " lines. 



162 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

The comedy relief in most plays to-day is as much 
a part of the story as the serious scenes. Therefore, 
it must never be forced. I remember reading a scene 
in which the situation was really funny. The author 
was aware of the situation, since he had purposely 
created it, yet the characters had to speak some of 
the saddest lines I ever read. It would have been 
better to let the episode speak for itself than to snow 
it under with talk. 

To be flippant or facetious in dialogue one must 
also be snappy. A speech of this nature, too long 
drawn out, will fail of its effect. It will be much 
like the story whose comic features a bad raconteur 
insists on repeating. Incidentally, facetiousness in 
dialogue is not always funny; it is so easy for it 
to become clownish or tiresome. 

Long speeches. Try not to have your speeches 
too long. A speech which would not seem long in 
a story is really so in a play, because it must be 
rendered aloud, and that method takes longer. Break 
it up in some way — -by action, by interruptions, or by 
any natural means. It is a rare thing in real life 
for a person to talk jtraight ahead for five minutes 
or more without some movement, or expression, or 
remark on the part of the other person or persons. 
Unless of an unusual quality, long speeches have 
much the effect of the missionary sermon of which 
Mark Twain told. At the beginning he was willing 
to give several hundred dollars — but when the mis- 
sionary finally finished his long-dragged-out address, 
his tired listener stole two pennies from the plate. 



FORM OF DIALOGUE 163 

The long speech puts you very much at the mercy 
of mediocrity in acting. If used, its content should 
be so dramatic in interest as to make it " actor- 
proof." To go to real life for examples: I have 
known a group of ordinarily restless people listen 
in utter silence to a soldier of the Spanish-American 
War describing the march through Bloody Bend, and 
all that he personally saw of the campaign in Cuba. 
His telling of the story was simple, in many in- 
stances almost emotionless. He could have told the 
same story in bad English — it would not have mat- 
tered. He was an eye-witness, the war was just over, 
his subject was of thrilling interest to his auditors. 
Yet, even here, an occasional exclamation of horror or 
amazement, a quickly-drawn breath, perhaps a hasty 
question, were frequent interruptions. Again, an- 
other group of the same mixed variety was held with 
absorbed attention listening to a woman's descrip- 
tion of the experiences of a survivor of the wrecked 
Titanic, a relative of her own. These were subjects 
on which it would have been well-nigh impossible 
to be uninteresting. 

But how many of us have known the experience 
of hearing some trivial episode described by two dif- 
ferent people? One has made us shriek with laugh- 
ter, because his quick wit had seen all the humor 
of the situation and his gift of telling a good story 
has made an ordinary affair exciting. The other 
does not know how to tell an amusing tale, and we are 
bored — though the subject is the same. 

Carry these experiences directly to your play- 



164. WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

dialogue. If your long speech has a dramatic reason 
for existence, use it and it will " get over." If it is 
trivial or badly written, a good actor may conceal 
the fact for you ; a bad one will certainly " show you 
up." 

Suppose you have created a chatterbox for special 
reasons. Long speeches to show this fact would not 
only be exceedingly tiresome, but really unnecessary. 
The constant talking of the character is rather indi- 
cated than acted out. He or she enters as if just 
finishing a long speech, or exits, in the midst of 
one supposed to continue after the exit — talks rap- 
idly and with the effect being given that there is 
still more to come; but, if the playwright knows his 
business, the audience is not inflicted as are the friends 
of the talker. 



CHAPTER XV 

IDIOSYNCRASIES OF THE DIALOGUE: 
EMPHASIS 

UNWIELDY WORDS EXCLAMATIONS CONSISTENCY 

TRANSITIONS LANGUAGE SLANG PUNS VUL- 
GARITY EMPHASIS " PLANTING " 

Unwieldy words. I have spoken of the use of 
" untalkable " sentences ; avoid also unwieldy words. 
The tongue is apt to trip on them, especially if 
they find place in speeches intended for rapid deliv- 
ery. Use the shorter, simpler words wherever your 
characters permit you to do so.) fcrive your people 
phrases and sentences made up of every-day ex- 
pressions. 

Exclamations. It will perhaps appear curious to 
many that I should feel impelled to take space just 
here to say a few words about the use of exclama- 
tions. These are so free and spontaneous with peo- 
ple generally that instruction on the matter would 
appear superfluous. Yet I have been forced fre- 
quently to correct the misuse of exclamations — ejacu- 
lations as unsuited to the emotion as inadequate 
speeches for intense scenes. For instance: In a very 
good little one-act play, a man exclaims : " My ! The 
very air seems filled with gloom and forebodings ! " 
The average man, under similar circumstances, op- 

165 



166 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

pressed with fears and a guilty conscience, would be 
more apt to exclaim, " God ! What a night ! " or 
some equally strong yet simple exclamation. But the 
use of the trivial " My ! " is farcical under such 
conditions. 

Also, we have the unusual, the individual exclama- 
tion. When the play is written around some histori- 
cal character who had an idiosyncrasy in the shape 
of a particular exclamation or oath, the author makes 
use of it. Who ever read a play or story of Henry 
of Navarre without meeting frequently his famous 
"Ventre Saint Gris ! "? Or, in a modern play, an 
author may intentionally give a character some such 
peculiarity : the effect produced is usually that of 
comedy. But in dealing with characters of your 
own creation in scenes of serious or tragic intent, 
avoid the unusual or odd exclamation. Such expres- 
sions are used to produce an effect, to show some 
kind of emotion — that is all. There is no necessity 
for attracting attention to the exclamation itself. 
One such ejaculation was uttered in the midst of 
a very strong scene in a play read a little while 
ago, and so different was it from the common expres- 
sions of people in the grip of such feelings it posi- 
tively interrupted the action. Thus, instead of be- 
ing the exclamation wrung from a man under strong 
emotion, as the author intended, it failed of its pur- 
pose because of too much originality. 

Lines that impede. Always your story must be 
a-marching. If it impedes the action, clever talk is 
not clever. Cut out your most cherished lines, if 



IDIOSYNCRASIES OF THE DIALOGUE 167 

they do not belong. Treasure them in a book if 
you like; leave them out of the play. What does 
belong will be all the stronger for its appro- 
priateness. 

Incidents or particulars necessary to the devel- 
opment of the story must not be related by one 
character to another in the play who would natu- 
rally know as much as the narrator of those matters. 
It spoils the illusion. If your audience must know 
of them, they may be told in a more natural man- 
ner; the person addressed must be someone sup- 
posedly ignorant of them. Sometimes, in a scene in 
which two people are recalling facts by way of remi- 
niscence — a natural method — it might be permissible, 
though not to any great extent. In any case, there 
must be reasons why the narrator chooses his par- 
ticular auditor. This emphasizes a previous remark 
about addressing speeches to the proper people. I 
frequently repeat myself to keep certain rules al- 
ways in your mind. Look upon such repetitions 
not as accidental, but as a matter of emphasis. 

Consistency. In your dialogue, which is by way 
of being your expression of your character-drawing, 
be consistent. To present even the most important 
ideas, do not allow your people to suddenly change 
their individuality and general viewpoint, and ex- 
press opinions utterly at variance with anything 
their previous acts and utterance would have led us 
to expect. If you have purposely created a char- 
acter given to sudden and inexplicable mental gym- 
nastics, well and good. In such a case, the audi- 



168 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

ence understands your intention. Otherwise, the 
more intelligent will simply think you have forgot- 
ten your own people ; the others will be bewildered by 
your complete change of base. 

Transitions. Make your transitions with some 
semblance of the natural order of things. If you 
are writing a quarrel scene, you can work it up a 
trifle more rapidly than in real life; but, unless you 
have previously presented one of the participants 
as quick of temper, give them time and cause for 
anger and the quarrel. Take them by carefully 
arranged transitions of mood, step by step, to the 
climax. It is wrong to keep them level on one step 
and then drop them with a thud to the bottom of the 
flight so suddenly and unexpectedly as to force on 
your audience a kaleidoscopic change of impressions. 
The exceptions will suggest themselves easily: the 
caddish insult with the quick blow in response, and 
similar situations. But in many a novice's play, 
where it is designed to have two characters quar- 
rel, the fight is what grips the mind of the author. 
The causes and development seem to him unnecessary. 
It is like turning the page on one set of people 
to find another group on the other side. You may 
apply this example of a quarrel-scene to any other 
big emotional climax to which you have led your 
characters too suddenly. 

So much for the manner and method of the dia- 
logue. Something must be said as to the form. 

Language. Language has not the rhetorical im- 
portance in the acted drama that it has in the purely 



IDIOSYNCRASIES OF THE DIALOGUE 169 

literary or poetic play. But it has a very live im- 
portance in the matter of its relation to your con- 
templated effect. By its use you intend to express 
your characters, the atmosphere in which they move, 
and the plot which they are developing. Therefore, 
the language used by each character should be only 
such as would be natural to him. By its means we 
receive an impression of his personality, whether 
he is clever or foolish, ignorant or educated, a boor 
or a gentleman. He cannot appear as an uncouth 
country yokel and converse in Addisonian English. 
Neither can he be a recently landed Scandinavian 
peasant and make his remarks in the correct terms 
of upper Fifth Avenue. He cannot be an impas- 
sioned boy and use the coolly deliberate phrases of 
a lecturer. Thus the language of your dialogue 
expresses the type of people and their surroundings, 
aiding materially, by this means alone, in establish- 
ing your exposition of plot. In this matter of the 
form of the language, consistency and natural- 
ness are paramount. Many writers, especially 
those just beginning, have a dread of writing as 
they would talk. In fiction this is a fault, but 
it is one which in many instances passes us by 
in the rush of the story. In playwriting, it is a 
calamity. 

In dealing with plays laid in other times and 
places than the now and here, this consistency must 
be carried to the language of your characters so 
that they do not offend our knowledge of those times 
and places. The New Yorker of two hundred years 



170 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

ago did not talk as does the Gothamite of to-day. 
Here again your language assists in the creation of 
your intended effect. Try to use the language of 
the particular period as it has come down to us. 
Any attempt to be distinctly modern and colloquial 
in a play laid, for instance, in the London of Eliza- 
beth is an anachronism, permissible only in broad 
burlesque. This very modernism on such a subject 
in itself creates the atmosphere of burlesque, and 
again the language used has served its purpose. For 
instance, a Biblical play written on a serious sub- 
ject by a young amateur offended grossly in this 
respect, by the use of absolutely local slang and dis- 
tinctly modern and new expressions. These had crept 
in in conjunction with attempts at the dignity of the 
beautiful phrases of the Bible narrative. Charles 
Rann Kennedy succeeded where an amateur failed. 
In The Terrible Meek he has the soldiers at the foot 
of the Cross speak with the harsh and homely lan- 
guage of the man-in-the-ranks of to-day. But there 
is no loss of dignity, because it is done intentionally 
to bring a great subject into the hearts of the pres- 
ent generation; while the language is modern, it 
is not trivial. Also, as the entire scene is played in 
the dark, the contrast between the uniforms of Ro- 
man soldiers and the language of Tommy Atkins is 
not forced on us. The whole effect is intentionally 
mysterious. 

The writer should follow the language of a par- 
ticular period closely enough to create atmosphere 
and character, without copying it so abjectly as 



IDIOSYNCRASIES OF THE DIALOGUE 171 

to be unintelligible to modern ears. It is a point 
where a nice balance is necessary. 

Slang. We have spoken of slang. Judiciously 
used, when put into the mouths of the proper peo- 
ple, it has value in creating the effect of everydayness. 
But do not try to create a slangy character if you 
are comparatively unfamiliar with the slang of the 
day. It is a curious fact that when attempted under 
such circumstances, the author will go to lengths 
that would make George Ade sit up. This is espe- 
cially true if the slangy character is a woman. Since 
all kinds of slang look alike to him, the writer, 
knowing little of how much and what kind of slang 
a nice woman can use and still be nice, will give 
her speeches of which a Billingsgate fish-wife might 
be ashamed. It is truly surprising how often this 
mistake occurs. It moves me to repeat my advice: 
do not write of things outside your experience and 
comprehension. 

Beware of puns ! I mean, your puns. If you have 
created a character whose sin is punning, make him, 
for that reason, the butt of the other characters. 
Only then will he be funny. In one play which 
never saw the footlights, the greater part of the 
comedy depended entirely on puns: good puns, bad 
puns, silly puns — and nothing else! 

Vulgarity. A question came to me not long since 
as to how to express a big and serious situation 
without being risque or vulgar. It brings us back 
to the effect you wish to produce. Such a matter 
can only lie in the mental outlook of the writer. 



172 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

When one is handling a big or bold subject it must be 
handled bravely and boldly. If there is no nastiness 
latent in the situation or in the mind of the writer, 
if his intention is to treat the matter seriously, it 
will be difficult for him to be vulgar. Vulgarity and 
the risque in themselves imply nastiness. You remem- 
ber the statuette in Hichens' novel, The Woman with 
the Fan? Without the fan, it was simply a classic 
little figure of a nude woman; with the fan, it be- 
came a naked woman, all the classic suggestion gone. 
It is so in your dialogue. The subject in both is 
apparently the same — the woman. The effect de- 
pends on your deliberate intention. 

The important scene. Following a carefully 
planned scenario, it is possible to write the scenes 
of the play just in the order they occur. But many 
dramatists have found it advisable to write the, 
to them, most important scene or scenes first. For 
those who can do it, it has this advantage: after its 
completion it is possible to go back over the scenario, 
revising it in many places to help the building toward 
this scene. Even if you write your scenes in order, 
you will go back again and again to " plant " the 
lines or situations necessary. By " planting " a line 
or situation, we mean any preliminary emphasis on 
information or characterization. 

Emphasis. It is, therefore, necessary for the 
dramatist to emphasize or plant facts necessary to 
the development of the plot. There are many ways 
of doing this. It is not enough to have some slight 
allusion made to such a matter several scenes or even 



IDIOSYNCRASIES OF THE DIALOGUE 173 

acts before the information is required, else it is lost 
and forgotten. " Most dramatists," says Clayton 
Hamilton, " in the preliminary exposition that must 
always start a play, contrive to state every impor- 
tant fact at least three times: first, for the atten- 
tive; second, for the intelligent; and third, for the 
large mass that may have missed the first two state- 
ments." 

Planting a situation. Without too apparent in- 
sistence, important matters must be driven home ; the 
way must be prepared for the denouement. It may 
be managed by speeches here and there, or by stage 
business, or movements. For example, in Augustus 
Thomas' The Witching Hour, an absolutely unpre- 
meditated murder is committed by a boy, in the home 
of a friend, the uncle and guardian of the girl he 
loves. The implement of attack is a large and very 
heavy paper-cutter. To emphasize the lack of pre- 
meditation, or deliberate intention to kill, Thomas has 
various members of the cast pick up that paper- 
cutter, play with it, lay it down — until the audience 
becomes acquainted with its appearance and weight, 
also with the fact that it is an ordinary feature of 
the room's furnishings. Then, when the boy picks it 
up and blindly attacks his tormentor, the audience 
realizes without any further explanation the sudden- 
ness of his rage and the instinctive seizing of the 
first thing under his hand. 

A good and simple example of how a situation may 
be planted can be drawn from an episode in Within 
the Law, The third act is laid in the millionaire's 



174 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

library. A very dramatic surprise is caused by a 
sudden flash of light through an open window of a 
darkened room, which reveals a dead man on the 
floor. To have no preparation for this flash would 
leave the mind of the spectator divided between in- 
terest in the scene and the query as to what had 
caused the sudden light. The interest must not be 
divided ; to guard against it and satisfy the audience 
with an explanation, a scene is prepared earlier 
in the act. Two men are talking, the host and a 
visitor. Suddenly the light flashes through the 
window. " What was that ? " asks the visitor. 
" That's the searchlight from the Metropolitan 
Tower; it flashes around here every fifteen minutes. 
It won't trouble you again." And he draws the 
curtains. The situation is " planted." No need for 
us to see the flash every fifteen minutes. We can even 
forget all about the light. But when again we see 
it at the crucial moment, we share in the dramatic 
shock of the situation ; the interest is entirely on the 
plot, and not on the light. 

Following is an example on the negative side from 
an unproduced play-manuscript, where emphasis is 
not laid on the exposition. The play is on occult 
lines, and in the last act the hero suddenly sees 
a picture in a crystal which tells him of a tragedy 
which touches him nearly, occurring some distance 
away. Now, " crystal-gazing " is not an everyday 
affair; many people know nothing about it. Yet 
the only previous reference to it was in the first 
act, when one character presented the crystal in its 



IDIOSYNCRASIES OF THE DIALOGUE 175 

ivory setting to the hero's sister, with a few com- 
ments and an effort on the part of the hero to " see." 
There were many places where his increasing ability 
in this line could have been shown, or even a few 
lively discussions on crystal-gazing between a skep- 
tic and himself — anything of dramatic interest to 
prepare the audience for an understanding of his 
horror at the final image. 



CHAPTER XVI 
DRAMATIC ACTION 

ACTION KNOWLEDGE OF THE EFFECT EMPTY PAUSE 

DRAMATIC PAUSE STORY KEPT MOVING BUSI- 
NESS REALISM STAGE-DIRECTIONS 

Action. " Action," as the word is used in the thea- 
ter, may have one or both of two meanings. In its 
ordinary sense it simply means movement, something 
happening. Dramatically, it means the whole course 
of events, or in a lesser degree, all that makes up 
a situation, from the mental undercurrent to the 
grouping of the figures. Since it is correctly used 
with both these meanings, and since no other word 
entirely fills its place, I have used it in both ways ; 
I think the context will usually make clear which 
meaning you are to understand. A manager may 
say to a writer : " There's no action in your play." 
He means that nothing happens which is of real 
interest or importance, though the writer may feel 
he has provided plenty of " action " by keeping his 
people in constant motion. Dramatic action need 
not mean physical motion at all. It is the " getting 
somewhere " with your story, the unraveling of your 
plot, which constitutes action as understood by 
dramatists. The method depends on the effect you 

176 



DRAMATIC ACTION 177 

' desire to produce. Always mental, the appeal may 
be entirely intellectual, or inspiring ; or it may affect 
the mentality along its more primitive side, by horror, 
by curiosity, by laughter. Walter Pritchard Eaton 
says that " the' sight of a man whose mere life is 
at stake at the point of a pistol is infinitely less in- 
teresting, dramatic, important, than the sight of a 
man whose soul is at stake at 'the point of another's 
ideas and inspiration." 

Knowledge of effect. Lack of knowledge of what 
you desire the effect on your audience to be is one 
cause of failure in writing. The function of the 
drama is always entertainment in some form, whether 
by laughter or a good mental stir-up. Beyond hop- 
ing that they will like it, be sure you know what 
you want your audiences to think and feel. This 
knowledge and the desire to produce the effect will 
help you mightily in the presentation of action and 
the writing of dialogue. No matter what your point 
of view, you must remember that the audience has 
one also and it may not be yours. You must, there- 
fore, want to produce your effect ; merely knowing 
what it should be will not do it. An earnest ritualist 
of an orthodox established church did not take into 
his calculations the point of view of those outside the 
fold of his own sect and in all sincerity wrote into 
his play a line which to him was worthy of all rever- 
ence and solemnity — and a cosmopolitan, irreverent 
city found the line screamingly funny. The drama- 
tist's desire to produce his calculated effect was not 
great enough to make him step outside his own opin- 



178 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

ion and take into account the audience's sympathy 
and understanding. 

Empty pause. A frequent blunder in the " ac- 
tion " of the novice's play is what we may call the 
empty pause. It usually occurs in this way : " Sara 
leaves the room; in a few minutes she returns with 
a book." Those " few minutes " of unprovided ac- 
tion and speech for the people left on the stage ! And 
they occur again and again — pauses which would 
make seemingly interminable stage-waits. Do not 
misunderstand me; I have no reference to the dra- 
matic pause, as necessary in play-writing as in music. 
But pauses such as I have mentioned, occurring at 
times in the play when the interest should be kept 
up, the action moving, are only stupid blunders on 
the part of the writer. Take the example given : the 
" few minutes " while Sara is off-stage. This inter- 
val must be filled. How? Is the book important? 
Or is it only necessary that she be out of the way? 
If the former, then she is going to get the book 
to show someone she has left on the stage. Unless 
there is some such reason, you have no right to em- 
phasize her going for a book, but would have the 
book present on the scene. The person or persons 
on the stage must be given some piece of business 
depending entirely upon the reason she went. They 
may be bored, or impatient, or eager to see the book. 
They will probably speak several lines on the sub- 
ject. If, on the other hand, her reason for leaving 
is because the dramatist wants her out of the way, 
then the reason he got her off-stage must be shown 



DRAMATIC ACTION 179 

during her absence, by the actions or speeches of 
those left, or by the entrance or exit of whichever 
character he wishes to have take advantage of her 
being gone. No empty moments or pauses are per- 
mitted on the stage; those that do find place are 
such as are themselves part of the action — a char- 
acter's inability to speak under strong emotion, or a 
pause of expectancy at some crucial moment. 

Dramatic pause. A dramatic pause is one of sus- 
pense, interest ; sometimes the stage is quite empty, 
or, if peopled, the actors, too, are waiting, breath- 
less. There may be but one person present, and 
that one may be apparently either dead or fainted. 
In Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Tess picks up the carv- 
ing-knife, and exits into the room where the audience 
knows Alec is supposed to lie in drunken slumber. 
The stage is empty, the silence pregnant, as the au- 
ditors picture to themselves the scene in that room. 
Tess returns, the bloody knife in her hand. How long 
that pause has been no one stops to consider. It is 
more dramatic, under the circumstances, than the 
acted scene could possibly be. 

On the other hand, a needlessly empty stage, or 
actors left by a careless author with nothing to do 
or say, while someone goes out and does some unim- 
portant thing, and returns, is simply bad play- 
writing. 

Such matters may seem trifles to the beginner; 
yet it is in just such matters as these that the novice 
shows his hand. The ability to tie up all the loose 
ends shows experience. 



180 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

Story kept moving. Many novices seem to take 
as a motto for their work the slogan : " I don't know 
where I'm going, but I'm on my way ! " To amble 
gently along may serve in a certain kind of novel; 
do not try it in a play. No matter how attractive 
they may be, a lot of characters wandering in and 
out, talking, talking — clever talk, too, sometimes — 
will not make a play. The story must be kept mov- 
ing, with as little interruption as possible, on to 
the end. There must be interest, entertainment. 
Even if two or three people are quietly talking, 
with even an appearance of aimlessness, it all has 
definite bearing on the matter in hand. So many 
people seem to think that action means a murder 
every minute, or the heroine's fainting every third 
speech. Action, indeed ; but it is not dramatic, 
unless it means something, and it will not make a 
play. 

Making drama. Nor will emotional scenes or big 
situations, by themselves, make drama. Like every 
other part in the structure, they must lead some- 
where, have dramatic value, belong to the action. It 
is not at all dramatic for you to drop your pencil. 
But, if you do so because you have been startled or 
some sudden thought has crossed your mind, the act 
immediately becomes important. When Angel Clare, 
in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, remarks to Tess on 
their wedding-day that it is strange he has never 
before seen her handwriting, she knows for the first 
time that the letter she had written to him which 
would probably have prevented their marriage has 



DRAMATIC ACTION 181 

never reached him: that while she has been sure he 
has married her, knowing all, he has really been 
in ignorance and her confession is still to be made. 
Mrs. Fiske used ,to make her audiences fairly jump 
by suddenly dropping her pen with a clatter against 
a plate. And a simple speech, an ordinary act, 
became big with drama. 

Business. When the action becomes the " busi- 
ness," we have the more popular meaning of the 
word — what the actors do as distinguished from what 
they say. 

Realism overdone. There is a tendency with some 
writers to carry stage-business to a degree of realism 
that is not only revolting but unnecessary. Of course, 
the fault may lie with an actor deficient in taste, 
or with a stage-director. But the author can be 
specific enough in his directions to see that no oppor- 
tunity is given for overdoing. For instance, I have 
seen death-scenes portrayed on the stage which 
passed beyond the point of dramatic effect and be- 
came only a harrowing or pathological episode which 
one wished finished. In one of the many versions of 
Oliver Twist prepared for the stage is one in which 
the death of Nancy is so bloody, so long drawn out, 
so terrible, that people simply shut their eyes, and 
in some instances leave the theater. In an old play 
called The Soudan was another death-scene, a soldier 
begging for water, that stays in memory as a situa- 
tion to keep one away from the play, blotting out 
all other excellences. The fault in this latter case 
probably lay in the vanity of the actor. Here again 



182 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

the effect you desire to produce must be your guide ; 
you wish to thrill, to harrow, but not to drive your 
audience away feeling they will never come again. 

Stage-directions. As a rule, I find it unsafe for 
the novice in the theater to fill his play with too many 
descriptions or suggestions for stage-business. In 
this direction more than any other he is apt to do 
the things he should not. It is best, until greater 
knowledge of actors and acting is acquired, not to 
tell them in a first-play manuscript what to do to 
any large extent. The movements, et cetera, neces- 
sary to the telling of the story will find place as 
a natural consequence of your writing. These it is 
safe and right to use. But as I said in the matter 
of scenario descriptions, the more exact and effective 
movements had better be intrusted to the stage- 
director. To show you just where the difficulty lies, 
a few examples will illustrate actual errors of nov- 
ices in the endeavor to combine " business " and dia- 
logue without any real knowledge of the stage. One 
very popular mistake is the sending of a character 
off the stage for a specific purpose and allowing him 
to return too soon to have discharged his errand. If 
it is not desired to allow the passage of the actual 
moments required, the time should be suggested by 
sufficient dialogue and movement during his absence 
to give the impression that some time has passed. 
In one play a man was sent off the stage with instruc- 
tions from another character to go to a shop at the 
next corner, telephone from there, ask certain ques- 
tions, one or two of which required detailed answers, 



DRAMATIC ACTION 183 

and return with these answers. The celerity with 
which all these things were accomplished smacked of 
magic. Half a dozen sentences bridged the gap; 
actually, he would hardly have reached the door of 
the house on his outward trip, before he was back, his 
errand satisfactorily completed. In another play, 
a maid was ordered to telephone for a case of cham- 
pagne; in about thirty seconds, she appeared in the 
door to announce : " The champagne is in the ice- 
box." 

Gestures. The advice to the novice against too 
detailed business is especially true when dealing with 
a scene of very intense emotion. On these occa- 
sions the actor is better left to himself and the stage- 
director. A forced gesture or movement as suggested 
by an amateur will not have the dramatic effect of a 
more spontaneous action from a trained player. In 
a very promising one-act play, read a little while ago, 
the writer had suggested for his heroine, in a mo- 
ment of tense inward struggle, a gesture — carefully 
described in detail — which was so extravagant, so 
bizarre, so difficult, that people would have said, 
"How did she do that?" instead of thinking of 
the feeling causing it. In addition the actress play- 
ing the part would have stood in danger of blood- 
poisoning or lockjaw at every performance! In 
some way the writer had pictured this gesture — it 
was so graphically described that his mental image 
of it must have been clear — as something very strik- 
ing and dramatic. The technical, or even the merely 
natural, side had not occurred to him. 



CHAPTER XVII 
STAGE-DIRECTIONS 

TECHNICAL ERRORS MANAGEMENT OP ENTRANCES 

AND EXITS CHANGES OF COSTUME DURING SCENE 

TOPOGRAPHY OF SCENE OF THE PLAY " PAD- 
DING " HANDLING SEVERAL CHARACTERS ON 

STAGE AT ONCE INSTRUCTIONS POSSIBLE TO FOL- 
LOW MANNER OF WRITING BUSINESS FARCE AND 

COMEDY WIT AND EPIGRAM COMEDY RELIEF 

Technical errors. I have said it is the part of wis- 
dom for the novice not to try to be too exact in busi- 
ness descriptions. It is almost as easy, however, to 
display one's ignorance by writing too little as by 
saying too much. There are instructions for busi- 
ness which even a novice should be able to insert in 
a manuscript, since they are matters which concern 
the development of his story; their omission makes 
one feel that the writer has been a trifle hazy at such 
points. I will give two samples from a play in 
which the writer showed positive evidence of dra- 
matic instinct, with the ability to tell his story 
through characters, by means of dialogue. His igno- 
rance of the actual theater was plainly displayed 
by many omissions and technical errors, some of 
which, like those I shall mention, he need not have 
made, in view of the ability otherwise displayed. One 

184 



STAGE-DIRECTIONS 185 

direction read something like this : " Brown hands 
MS. to Jones." Up to that moment there had been 
no mention of a MS. Had Brown entered the room 
with it? Then, the play 'script should have read, 
at the proper place : " Enter Brown with MS. in his 
hand." Was the MS. already on the desk? In the 
latter case, the instructions at 'rise of curtain should 
have been : " A MS. of such-and-such shape and bulk 
is lying on Brown's desk." In other words, the 
author had not visualized Brown and the MS. It 
simply came into being at the moment he wanted 
it. Consequently his play-manuscript lacked clear- 
ness. 

In another instance, during a long speech and 
scene, the direction was given : " Telephone bell rings 
at proper intervals." In a scene where the bell 
would interrupt speeches those intervals had best 
be indicated in the 'script. If the author does not 
do it — and in this case there is no reason why even 
a tyro should not be able to do it correctly — the 
director must. It is one case where the novice need 
not display his ignorance of technique. The bell is 
a cue for the actor whose speech follows it. If 
it is going to ring, he will not speak his line until 
it is sounded, else he will not be heard. He must know 
just where it is to come. Also, the property-man 
must know what speeches to follow with his bell. At 
rehearsals, these matters are smoothed out, so that 
there need be no unnecessary pauses. But it is very 
simple for the writer to say, " Telephone bell rings 
at intervals during the following scene, and is an- 



186 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

swered by Blank," in a scene where it is answered 
in dumbshow by someone while others are talking. 
Then, during the course of the scene, it is only 
necessary to write " Bell " at the proper places. It 
is very simple, yet the doing of this one little thing, 
or its omission, marks the difference between know- 
ing how and not knowing how. 

These examples are specific ; but you can easily 
make the application in many similar cases where 
a little thought wijl tell you what to do. Errors 
such as these are simply lack of attention and 
thought. 

Entrances and exits with change of costume dur- 
ing scene. I spoke in the last chapter of the exit 
and too rapid re-entrance of a character because the 
writer had not allowed dialogue and business enough 
to intervene to give the impression of the passage 
of time. In an entirely different way, there are sev- 
eral places in any play where the management of 
exits and entrances is a distinct matter of timing. 
For some reason, it may be necessary for a character 
to make a change of costume in the course of an 
act. It happens, through practice, that men and 
women of the stage are able to make these changes 
far more rapidly than other people, even more rap- 
idly than they themselves manage it in their home 
lives. Among players, also, there are those whose 
specialty is quick-changing; they carry it so far as 
to make capital of it as " lightning-change artists." 
You have all seen plays in which one actor portrays 
many characters, making his changes in dress and 



STAGE-DIRECTIONS 187 

make-up with almost inconceivable celerity. But the 
fact of those rapid transitions is the novelty of 
the play; everyone knows it is not the usual thing. 
Costumes, et cetera, are especially made for the pur- 
pose of getting in and out of them quickly. Even 
in the two Zenda plays, The Prisoner of Zenda and 
Rupert of Hentzau, in which the two Rudolfs are al- 
ways played by the same actor, the changes in 
costume require preparation, rehearsal — and sev- 
eral valets. There are, however^certain changes of 
costume in the modern play, which, while possible 
in a much shorter time than in home dressing, do 
require a period somewhat longer than the magic of 
a protean actor. For instance, I have read a play in 
which a woman, carefully gowned from head to foot 
in smart street costume, was expected to change to 
full evening dress — from jeweled coiffure to satin 
slippers — in half a page of dialogue: that is, about 
thirty or forty seconds ! It is possible for an actor 
to " under-dress " (wear one suit under another) so 
that half the dressing is done. But it depends upon 
just how much of a change must be made ; one can- 
not wear a trained skirt under a tight-fitting walking 
skirt, though it is possible to hide white silk stockings 
under black street hose. It therefore behooves you 
to give your characters — especially the feminine ones 
— time to make the necessary alteration in costume 
and appearance. In The Little Minister, in Act 
Three, Babbie makes a rapid change from her gypsy 
dress to the evening costume of Lady Barbara Rin- 
toul. I do not remember how many minutes elapsed ; 



188 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

there was a short scene, after her exit, between Gavin 
and the French maid; a scene between Gavin, Lord 
Rintoul, and the Captain. There were several pauses 
— always one when Lord Rintoul threw open the 
door of Babbie's room and called, " Come out ! " 
The actor playing it paused, if the actress playing 
Babbie was not waiting to enter. The pause was 
legitimate, giving the impression that his eyes 
searched the room. Also, he sometimes had to make 
another pause after speaking, giving the impression 
that naughty Babbie hesitated before her father's 
anger. Yet, even with this management of pauses, 
arrangement had to be made for the change of 
costume. If the star's dressing-room did not happen 
to be directly at her place of entrance, a temporary 
dressing-room had to be put up in the wings, in 
which her maid waited. The gypsy dress was easy 
to remove, and the brocade dress of the early nine- 
teenth century was made in one piece. 

I have told all this in detail to show you that the 
appearance of an actress in two different dresses on 
one page of your manuscript is something requiring 
a little thought, and some timing by the clock. 

Topography of scene. Another earmark of the 
novice is his apparent forgetfulness — or his lack 
of imagination — of the topography of the scene of 
his play other than the room disclosed to the audi- 
ence, which ignorance is shown by the carelessness 
with which he allows important people to enter and 
exit by doors and in directions where they would be 
sure to collide with other characters whom they are 



STAGE-DIRECTIONS 189 

not supposed to see. Take a play, for instance, in 
which you have indicated a room with but one door 
by which to reach the hall or out of doors. All char- 
acters going in or out must use this door. Unless 
you want them to meet in the doorway, or in the 
imaginary and unseen hall outside, provide enough 
dialogue or business for the characters remaining 
on the stage to allow your character time to get out 
of the way before supposedly meeting the other. A 
careless writer once sent a group of characters off 
by a certain door, with another group entering im- 
mediately on the exit of the first. Carried out ex- 
actly by a director, there would have been the nicest 
sort of a mix-up at that doorway. Nothing is hap- 
hazard in play-writing. Even this dialogue, which 
you are frankly writing in to give time for exit and 
entrance, must not degenerate into " padding." It 
must still be pertinent, still keep the story moving. 

" Padding." In a certain play, it became neces- 
sary to keep a character on the stage during a situa- 
tion in which his mere presence created suspense. So 
far as the lines spoken were concerned, at that par- 
ticular point they were of almost no consequence. 
The situation, the presence of those three people 
at that place, was having its effect. But lines were 
necessary, since the one character who was uncon- 
scious of the underlying tension, must be kept in ig- 
norance. An inexperienced writer would have let 
these people speak of anything at all. But this 
dramatist said : " Wait. If they speak of automo- 
biles, it would serve — but motors have nothing to 



190 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

do with the play. Isn't there something they can 
mention which will be trivial enough, and yet will 
help advance the plot? " Then he remembered that 
a pistol played an important part in the next act. 
The pistol was in that room. Why not speak of that? 
No sooner said than done. The characters were not 
only supplied with conversation, but the story was 
materially advanced because of his care in stopping 
to see that the lines which in one sense were only 
" padding " were in the picture. 

Several characters on stage. Also, remember that 
some skill is needed in handling many characters on 
the stage at once. I am not speaking now of the 
director's business, but yours. Do not leave several 
characters "on*" in a scene as if you had forgot- 
ten them in your interest in those who are talking. 
Either draw them into the dialogue, if that is your 
purpose, or send them off-stage legitimately. If 
they are people at an afternoon reception, for in- 
stance, they can be made to retire into the background 
in chatting groups. But do not leave John Smith 
out of a scene as if you had forgotten his presence. 
Do writers do it? Constantly. A character will 
have a few lines in a scene, perhaps important lines ; 
other characters will continue the action, and no 
further mention of the first character will be made. 
Like some dim ghost, he has passed out of this 
scene, no exit indicated, no business to occupy him, 
no lines to speak. 

Instructions possible to follow. Another re- 
minder, made necessary through experience with 



STAGE-DIRECTIONS 191 

novice's plays: only what your characters show us 
by the lines they speak and by their appearance 
crosses the footlights. Therefore, only such things 
should find place in a description as can be expressed 
by the actor's personality and appearance, together 
with the impressions conveyed, by scenery and cos- 
tume. Right here is the reason why long monologues 
and descriptive speeches are incorrect in the modern 
theater. The scenery and lighting take the place 
of the lines which were formerly given to players to 
tell the audience what the place was supposed to be. 
The rule, however, remains the same. Everything 
of importance necessary for the audience to know 
which cannot be conveyed through the eye must ap- 
pear in the dialogue. Business instructions are meant 
solely for the actors and the directors. Even in a 
published play, while the instructions may read more 
smoothly, and in fuller and unabbreviated sentences, 
this idea is kept. Never set down in these instruc- 
tions things humanly impossible of portrayal. 

For instance : a description reads, " Mary is a 
woman of thirty, who takes care of her widowed 
mother." Very interesting in the text. But, unless 
in the lines given to Mary or some other character 
in the play mention is made of her mother, what does 
the audience know, or care, about it? 

There is a good story told which illustrates my 
point. A certain famous English actress gave up 
her part in a play by an eminent novelist. When 
asked why, she exclaimed : " With the first rehearsal 
my troubles began. But, when I discovered in the 



192 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

second act, where I was to make my entrance, the 
stage-business was, ' Enter Mary, having had a cup 
of tea,' I gave up. It wasn't that I did not try. 
Indeed, I tried for days to look as if I'd been freshly 
tea'd. Then I threw up the part. I believe the play 
was not a success," she added viciously. 

To repeat : no matter what your gift of language, 
never let yourself forget your medium. The man 
who writes a play can sometimes write a readable 
novel, though he rarely tries. On the other hand, 
the trained novelists who can write successful drama 
are few and far between. The foregoing story may 
be some sort of an explanation. J. M. Barrie is 
one shining, notable example of one of these rare 
exceptions. And his play, What Every Woman 
Knows, is an excellent example of real dramatic 
literature. 

Manner of writing " business." Just a few words 
about the manner of writing your business. I have 
said that the language of the dialogue is dependent 
on the characters, the period, the place. The lan- 
guage of the business descriptions intended for a 
play-manuscript to be used by a director in a theater 
should be simple, direct, to the point, and as short 
as possible. I spoke of this in the chapter on the 
scenario; it is even more pertinent here. Lengthy, 
or facetious, or verbose descriptions break into the 
reading of the action and are best avoided. When 
a play is revised for publication, all that is neces- 
sary is the changing of the language from the tech- 
nical to the ordinary, omitting abbreviations. Al- 



STAGE-DIRECTIONS 193 

ways use the present tense in writing descriptions. 
What was or will be belongs to the dialogue. The 
business shows us what is. 

Farce and comedy. In writing farce, or comedy, 
the effect is produced by a judicious mixture of lines, 
business, and situation. For that matter, all dra- 
matic effect is achieved by the same means. In farce, 
frequently, all the fun is in the lines and their de- 
livery. Sometimes the laugh is in the action, regard- 
less of the line or the situation. But most often the 
situation is the mirth-provoker. So your laughable 
situation is properly a part of your scenario ; this 
is especially true of farce. The manner of express- 
ing those situations is a part of the play-dialogue. 

It is strange that sincerity should ever be funny; 
but recall to your mind the times you have probably 
shrieked with laughter at the perfectly serious and 
literal way someone has taken some ludicrous situa- 
tion that everyone else understood. Consequently 
some of the funniest lines in a play are spoken seri- 
ously by serious people. The audience stands in the 
place of the " everyone else " who sees through the 
situation. Any good comedian will tell you that he 
can kill his own comedy simply by realizing how 
funny he is. Of course, there are laughable lines 
meant to be spoken airily, lightly, laughingly, just 
as one talks in everyday life. They are pleasant, 
realistic, and amusing. But fun, real fun, in a play 
is more apt to be produced by the contrasts than 
by a witty line. One never quite knows when or 
how a laugh is to be provoked. A certain actor 



194 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

had a very good scene in a play written by a dramatist 
who also happened to be his friend. The actor was 
thoroughly convinced that this scene had not a spark 
of comedy in it, and played it in just that spirit. 
To this day, he is sure that the shouts of laughter 
the scene received from an appreciative audience 
were solely caused by his performance of the part. 
He never could be made to see that the situation as 
created by the dramatist was really ridiculous. His 
seriousness, of course, only made it the more funny. 

A comedienne showed her part to another actress 
during the progress of rehearsals. The friend, who 
really admired the other's work, said, feelingly: 
" It's too bad, dear ; you haven't a laugh in the whole 
of it ! " (Laugh, be it understood in this connection, 
means a laugh-provoking line or situation.) The 
comedienne felt quite uncomfortable about it — until 
later. Literally, she herself did not smile once, nor 
was any character in the piece supposed to be amused 
at anything she said or did. But the dignity of banal 
or stupid lines spoken with the utmost seriousness 
in situations where such lines were supremely ridicu- 
lous and unlooked for did the work the dramatist in- 
tended. His reward — and the actress's — came in the 
shape of peals of delighted laughter. 

The famous wake-scene in The Shaughraun is al- 
ways provocative of the heartiest laughter because 
the mourners are really mourning, the professional 
" keener," Biddy Madigan, is attending strictly to 
business in lamentations entirely serious, and not in 
the least funny. The joke lies in the fact that Conn 



STAGE-DIRECTIONS 195 

is the liveliest of corpses when the mourners are bowed 
in grief and not looking at the bier. 

Perhaps the funniest line in Bought and Paid For 
is the simple question, " What make is it ? " as pro- 
pounded by the phlegmatic Jimmie when his rich 
brother-in-law offers him an automobile. His look- 
ing a gift-horse in the mouth in this matter-of-fact 
manner provokes unlimited mirth, because it is so 
utterly characteristic of Jimmie, who has not a 
ghost of a sense of humor himself. To ask the ques- 
tion any other way than with the simple directness 
of unimaginative stupidity would not even provoke 
a smile. And such a direction as to the reading 
of the line must have been in the writer's intention 
of effect, else it would not have found place in the 
manuscript. Hence, that laughter goes back to the 
creator of the part, the author, as well as its orig- 
inator, the actor. 

Wit and epigram. Clever or witty dialogue, scin- 
tillating with epigram and double entendre, is not 
to be written by everybody. The ability to write it 
is a gift, but by no means a necessary gift, to the 
playwright. The epigrammatist, the humorist, is 
very apt to let his clever dialogue swamp or obscure 
his plot. Dialogue is not the end of play-writing, 
but the means. So be witty, if you can; the main 
thing is, tell your story. Funny lines do not neces- 
sarily make fun. Wit and epigrams in a play, un- 
less deliberately quoted by a character, should appear 
spontaneous. For instance, in Louis N. Parker's 
Disraeli the wit has the seeming of naturalness, as the 



196 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

brilliant Prime Minister gives utterance to some epi- 
gram, which has since become famous. But in an 
Oscar Wilde play, The Importance of Being Earnest 
as a sample, the dialogue seems written in many in- 
stances to display wit, which as a consequence, clever 
in itself, is forced and unnatural. 

Comedy relief. The use of comedy relief in a play 
is no longer felt to be obligatory, though some 
writers insist upon it. If a play really holds by 
its intensity, excitement and thrills take the emo- 
tional place of laughter. Dialogue in a lighter vein 
may legitimately have place in a serious play, how- 
ever, especially at the very beginning. It need not 
necessarily be laugh-provoking, but merely of a na- 
ture to relieve the tension of the drama. 

Whatever you do, however, in the way of comedy 
or farce, do not, I beg of you, explain your jokes. 
If they are good, they stand of themselves; if not, 
omit them. 

It really requires skill to deftly weave one humor- 
ous situation after another into adequate dialogue, 
so it may safely be said that as a rule farce, real 
farce, should rarely be attempted by any but an 
expert. The occasional genius will not need, nor 
heed, this rule. 

Clayton Hamilton explains the difference between 
comedy and farce in this way : " A comedy is a hu- 
morous play in which the actors dominate the ac- 
tion ; a farce is a humorous play in which the action 
dominates the actors." Actors in this relation should 
be taken to mean the participants in the situations 



STAGE-DIRECTIONS 197 

rather than the players. In a comedy we may come 
close to tears or pathos for a few moments at some 
sweet or touching scene. In farce, the main, the 
whole, idea is laughter — no need of plausibility, or 
psychology, or even wit. The cause of the fun lies 
in the situations. 

Beyond this reference to farce and comedy, there 
is no further need of touching on the divisions or 
kinds of plays. There are no longer any hard and 
fast lines drawn between them — they interpenetrate 
to a truly baffling degree: we have farce-comedy 
(pure farce is something of a rarity), comedy- 
drama, tragi-comedy, and so on through many and 
sundry combinations. When any of them is a play, 
it will not matter whether it falls under any of these 
divisions or descriptions, or breaks a new path for 
itself. 



CHAPTER XVIII 
THE MANUSCRIPT 

APPEARANCE TYPE- WRITTEN AND HAND- WRITTEN 

PAPER BINDING TITEE-PAGE CAST OF CHARAC- 
TERS SHORT CASTS LONG CASTS SYNOPSIS 

BEGINNING OF EACH ACT MANNER OF TYPING 

HOW TO JUDGE THE ACTING TIME THE TITLE 

Appearance. A very foolish young person once 
said to the writer, in submitting a play for reading: 
" I am not a good preparer of manuscripts, and can 
spend my time so much more profitably — not to say 
more pleasantly — than in making letter-perfect 
copies of things." Yes, actually. There was but 
one answer possible, and that answer was made. 
You cannot spend your time more profitably than 
in making your manuscripts look like business. These 
are busy days, and managers and their readers are 
busy people. Why should they trouble themselves 
about a slovenly or careless manuscript? Besides, 
there are certain matters to be observed in the prepa- 
ration of a play-manuscript which inevitably mark 
out the experienced from the tyro. These matters 
neglected, the manager can be moderately sure with- 
out turning the pages that the writer is utterly 
unskilled in this particular line, and, unless he knows 
something of him, will probably toss it aside with 

198 



THE MANUSCRIPT 199 

remarks about the ubiquitousness of the amateur 
playwright. Carelessness is bad anywhere; when as- 
sumed in dramatic work because there are other 
things more important, it puts one completely out of 
the running. Sardou's first produced play The Stu- 
dent's Tavern, received its reading thus: The man- 
ager of the Odeon, on leaving the theater with the 
leading actress, turned over the heap of plays wait- 
ing reading. Sardou's neat, clear handwriting (it 
was before the day of the typewriter) attracted the 
actress's attention, and she began to read it. This is 
only an anecdote, but it has its value for the novice. 

Few of my suggestions regarding the preparation 
of the manuscript are arbitrary; all have their use 
and advantage. 

Type-written or hand-written. First of all, we 
come to the question of type or long-hand. The 
matter still seems to remain in doubt with many nov- 
ices, in spite of the ever-present typewriter. Let us 
settle it at once : hand-written play manuscripts stand 
practically no chance at all with the average man- 
ager. Like everything else, there is an occasional, 
a very occasional, exception, especially in one-act 
plays. The reason is clear: with a sketch, one usu- 
ally approaches the actor who wishes to use it, rather 
than a manager. The actor, searching for a vehicle, 
is apt to be more willing to look over a short play 
in long-hand than any manager. But if one does 
not know the actor, personally, the situation is 
practically the same as with a manager: if you are 
unknown to either, a hand-written manuscript im- 



200 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

presses the reader with the fact that you are a novice, 
and your work receives scant, if any, attention. Just 
here, some remarks by Walter Pulitzer, nephew of the 
late owner of the New York World, emphasize what 
has just been said: "The advantageous policy of 
sending in type-written copy is so plain that a 
penned manuscript is at once recognized by the pro- 
fessional readers as the product of one who has not 
yet found his way into the game. The disadvantage 
of being spotted as a beginner in itself makes it 
worth one's while to have a thing type-written to 
avoid the handicap." 

Therefore, unless influence of some kind is brought 
to bear to get a reading, or unless the manuscript is 
entered in some competition where the permission for 
long-hand is given among the conditions, use the 
typewriter. 

Paper. Never use thin paper, especially the kind 
called onion-skin. It is always annoying to handle a 
manuscript typed on paper so transparent that the 
pages beneath show through, to say nothing of its 
likelihood of tearing. For the same reason, do not 
use pale ink. This usually results from trying to 
make too many manifold copies at a time. It is 
best to use the black carbon papers, and, if the under- 
most copy is pale, keep that for your own use: do 
not inflict the play-reader with it. Some carbon pa- 
pers write green, making the last copies so pale as 
to be absolutely a menace to the eyesight. If a reader 
has many manuscripts on hand, he simply will not be 
bothered with copies which for any reason of type, 



THE MANUSCRIPT 201 

or ink, or binding, are difficult to read or handle. 
The paper should be of the usual typewriter size, 
8^ by 11^, or thereabouts. 

An authority oh these matters, in a text-book for 
writers, says : " Use a black, or blue-black, or dark- 
blue, or dark-green ink, and under no circumstances 
a purple, or yellow, or any other color. Black or 
blue-black is preferable." It is hardly necessary to 
add: write on one side only. Also leave a wide mar- 
gin at the left to allow for fastening together. 

In the matter of binding your manuscripts, it is 
a debatable question as to which is advisable — to bind 
the play all in one, or with each act bound sepa- 
rately. Both ways have their good points, the first 
being sometimes used in presenting a play for copy- 
right, or reading; the second is more usual, and is 
a much better form for use at rehearsal. 

Prepare the play in manifold, four copies of a 
manuscript being the least number any dramatist 
should have for distribution. 

Binding. The sheets of a play-manuscript are 
usually fastened together at the side, book-fashion. 
They are much more easily handled and read in this 
shape. Also, at rehearsal, it makes possible the writ- 
ing in of business or changes, on the blank page 
opposite. For cover, use a very heavy paper or 
other strong material, not too stiff. There is a 
heavy, light-blue paper which is often used, and an 
even more useful fibrous paper of brown, called, by 
its various manufacturers, either paperoid or leather- 
oid. Heavy board is not so desirable, because of 



202 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

the weight it adds to the manuscript. Had you ever 
seen an excited stage-director rushing around, play- 
book in hand, you would realize the object of mak- 
ing " scripts " both durable and pliable. 

Title-page. On the first page, write your title, 
the nature of the play — Drama in Four Acts, Com- 
edy in Three Acts, et cetera — and your name. At 
one of the lower corners repeat this name, with your 
address. If you have had the play copyrighted, 
this fact and the date appear on the other lower 
corner. The play-cover should also contain these 
same items of information, which are repeated on 
the cover of each act, together with the number of 
the act. It enables a play-reader to bring them to- 
gether, should any one of the acts be separated from 
its companions. 

Cast. On your second page, give your cast of 
characters, in full. Never omit it. Often I have 
noticed such casts, which appeared at a glance to 
contain, say, eight people. On reading the play, new 
though minor characters kept cropping up here and 
there, not listed. Every character with a speaking 
part must be contained in your cast of characters. 
If there are supernumeraries, the fact must also 
be stated. This page is frequently the first — and 
sometimes the only — page at which a manager looks. 
If he knows nothing of the writer, a long cast is 
apt to give him pause. But it is not wise to trick 
him with a false one. 

Short casts. The reasons for the desirability of a 
short cast are obvious. A manager feels that to deal 



THE MANUSCRIPT 203 

with the unknown playwright is something of a gam- 
ble. Unless the author is paying for the produc- 
tion, it is the manager's money which is risked on 
the venture. The less initial cost he finds confront- 
ing him, the more likely he is to take that risk. A 
long salary list, costume plays, extravagant and 
varied scenery, all mean additional expenses which 
keep the manager from accepting a new play by a 
new writer. Unless the play presents unusual quali- 
fications, few managers will care to risk a small 
fortune on producing it. It is well for the novice 
to remember these hints if he wishes his play to have 1 
even a reading. 

Long casts. There is also confusion to the audi- 
ence in a lengthy cast of characters. In My Lady's 
Lord, a play produced a number of years ago on 
Broadway, every supernumerary was given a char- 
acter-name and listed in the cast with the name of 
the person assuming the part. One simply got lost 
before reaching the end of the long list of names. 
For that reason, often, when a writer gives one line 
each to several minor, and often unnamed charac- 
ters, those lines are given orally by the stage-director 
to various of the more promising members of the 
supernumerary band, and they are not listed in the 
cast of characters. This is especially the case in a 
big mob scene, where individuals in the crowd shout 
out certain lines necessary to the play's progress. 
Such instances are the only places where it is per- 
missible to leave their names out of the cast of char- 
acters, and lump them under the head of extra 



204 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

actors, or " supers." The following hint can be 
your guide: whenever you feel that the manager 
will have to engage someone to play the part, no 
matter how small it is, that part belongs in your cast ; 
when you feel that the line or lines can be adequately 
rendered by an intelligent member of the crowd of 
" supers," and will not require an actor especially 
engaged, the part need not be listed. But if your 
play has no supernumeraries, and there are still these 
extra lines to be spoken, you had better add at the 
end of your cast something like this : " A Man," or 
" Two Policemen," as the case may be. This en- 
ables the manager to tell at a glance how many peo- 
ple will have to be engaged. Under the cast of char- 
acters, where " supers " are required, may appear 
something of this sort : " Ladies and gentlemen of the 
Club; soldiers, civilians, ragamuffins, etc." These 
will all be played by the extra people. 

Character names are placed in a cast in several 
ways. A very prevalent method to-day is to men- 
tion ,them in the order of their first appearance or 
first spoken line. In that case, the cast is headed 
thus: (Characters are mentioned in the order of their 
first appearance.) The next usual course is to list 
them in the order of their dramatic importance — 
the leading parts first, and so on down. Still an- 
other way is to give the names in the order of their 
social position. This is frequently done if the char- 
acters have titles. Sometimes, it is because the cast 
represents a large household, and the head of the 
family is given first, with the other members in the 



THE MANUSCRIPT 205 

order of their age and relationship to the head, 
though the more important members of the cast, 
dramatically speaking, may be those lower down 
the list. In a case of this kind, it is a good method, 
because it straightens out the various positions of 
the household without undue , confusion. All these 
ways have their uses, and are correct. You may 
take your choice. 

Synopsis. If there is room on this page, under 
the cast of characters, give act and scene synopsis, 
with time and place of each. If the cast is long 
and the space underneath small, give this synopsis 
space by itself on the next page. Thus : 

ACT ONE 

TIME: AUGUST OF THE PRESENT YEAR. 
PLACE: GARDEN OF BEAUMONT' S HOUSE. 

and so on. If all the acts occur in the same place, 
the list of acts need only state the occasion or time 
of each, and this can be preceded or followed by 
something like this: ^ 

THE ACTION TAKES PLACE IN THE GAR- 
DEN OF BEAUMONT'S HOUSE; THE TIME 
IS THE PRESENT. 

The preceding will suggest the form to use for your 
particular play. 

Beginning of each act. You start your play 
proper with the next page, which it is usual to num- 



206 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

ber 1. Begin each act with a description of the 
stage-setting, or " set," unless it is the same as an 
earlier act. This is the place to mention the presence 
on the stage of any " props " which are to be used 
or mentioned by any characters: the letter Mary 
finds on her desk must be cited as well as the desk 
itself; John's pistol in the drawer of the chiffonier 
is listed as well as the chiffonier in which the prop- 
erty-man places it. Refer back to the chapter on 
the scenario in which I spoke of the danger of too 
great detail in the novice's scenic descriptions. It 
is hoped by the time you are ready to type your 
play for managerial approval you will be equal to 
a little greater detail. But if you are at all uncer- 
tain, you may mention the pistol, for instance, in some 
such manner as this : " The scene is John's bedroom. 
It is bare and ugly, with no furniture save his cheap 
iron bed, some chairs, a small table, and a rickety 
chiffonier. In the second drawer of this last is 
a loaded pistol." You will note you have described 
a room sufficiently suggestive to any manager, with- 
out having betrayed your ignorance as to just what 
terms to use in giving the position of the various 
articles of furniture. 

Describe each character. Whether one character 
or several is on the stage at the rise of the cur- 
tain, the name of each, with a description of him, 
will find place in the paragraph following the de- 
scription of the set. Incidentally, whenever you 
mention a group of characters as entering or leav- 
ing in a body — exclusive, of course, of the " extras " 



THE MANUSCRIPT 207 

— mention just which characters these are, unless 
it is a general exit or entrance of all the characters. 
But, in the matter of one character or several present 
on the stage at the rise, since it is their first appear- 
ance, this is the place for a description, and not 
as they begin to speak. Throughout the play- 
manuscript, give such a description of each character 
with his or her first entrance. Thus : " Enter John 
Lancaster. He is tall and thin, and speaks with a 
marked English accent." This is for the benefit 
of the stage-director, the actor playing the part, 
and the manager engaging him. Give his probable 
age, certain noticeable traits, his appearance, in a 
general way, as to figure and dress. You read of 
this in the chapter on the characters ; this is the 
place you put it into use. 

Manner of typing. In typing the play be clear as 
to what is spoken and what is acted. Your dialogue 
and business must be kept separate and distinct. As 
an example, I will present a few lines of supposed 
manuscript : 

The room is in darkness* 

Eater Lady Mary from door rigit with a light- 
ed candle* She advances center and places 
it on. the table* 



LADY MABY 
Placing her hand on her Breast* 

•How very still it ist 

She pauses as if listening* 

Who's there? Answer at once, or 

She takes the pistol from the table and 



208 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

points it toward the corner where Ea- 
oul is hiding* 
I shall shoot I 



EAODL 
Stepping forward 
It is It 

This shows how carefully we divide speech from 
action, even in the midst of a sentence. The " busi- 
ness " is also frequently inclosed in parentheses. 
There is no chance for a mistake. It is easy to read, 
to follow. The stage-director has no difficulty in 
finding his place. 

All that is not actually spoken by a character is 
indented, as you see, and is usually underlined with 
red ink, though some manuscripts omit this red-lining. 
But, since it further serves to separate speech and 
action, many prefer it. 

The spacing is a matter of choice. Sometimes, 
double spacing is used throughout between all lines. 
The usual method, however, is that given above — 
triple spacing between all speeches, with single spac- 
ing for the lines and business of the speeches. 

You will note I have placed the name of the char- 
acter speaking, in the center above the speech. This 
is the usual procedure in a play-manuscript, though 
there have been occasional exceptions among certain 
of the professional typists. In some of the pub- 
lished play-books, it is frequently placed at the 
left, preceding the speech, though of late years in 
the plays of successful dramatists published after 



THE MANUSCRIPT 209 

production it is given just as in the manuscript. 
Note As a Man Thinks, by Augustus Thomas. If the 
name is put at the left instead of center in a manu- 
script, it is nevertheless separated from the speech. 
Thus : 

IADY IflffiY (Placing test band on her breast) 
HOW very still it is 

(Pausing as if listening) 
Who's there* etc. 

This manner is not so good as the other, but it is 
used, and is clear. 

Never, in a manuscript intended for business, for 
theatrical production, alter the name of the char- 
acter at the head of his speeches. Whatever you 
call him with his first speech, he should be labeled 
throughout. It is customary, in this connection, to 
use for this purpose the name by which the char- 
acter is most frequently called during the progress 
of the play, or by his simplest designation. For 
instance, he may be listed in the cast of characters 
as John Chesterton Banks, or Henry VIII, King 
of England. But if the former is called " Jack " by 
the majority of the cast, he heads his lines as " Jack." 
And the august potentate would head his speeches as 
Henry, or as The King. Keep it consistently to the 
end. A play meant for acting purposes once started 
two of its characters off as he and she. Midway, 
these designations were changed to man-victim and 
woman-victim. If you will remember that your 
audience is listening and watching, not reading, you 



210 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

will realize the futility of changes like these in the 
parts of the manuscript not meant for them. 

Estimating the acting time. As a rule, readers 
estimate the acting time of a play at the rate of a 
minute to a page — when pages are of the usual size 
and typed about as I have shown. For this reason it 
is well to number your pages, beginning afresh with 
each act. The director can then judge about how 
many minutes each act will run. A play is expected 
to provide an evening's entertainment: that is, it 
must last from one and three-quarters to two hours 
at least. Allowing for ten-minute waits between 
the acts — though this is longer than is often de- 
sirable — a play totaling one hundred pages will risk 
being too short. If a short play is very clever, 
this brevity is made up by stealing time elsewhere: 
beginning late, with long intermissions. It is a risk, 
however, as the waits are apt to tire an audience. 
In counting up the playing time, always allow for 
at least five-minute waits between acts. The average 
play-manuscript contains about one hundred and ten 
to one hundred and fifty pages. 

The title. Since your play's title may be the last 
thing upon which you decide, it will find place here 
for discussion, as you finish the typing. No matter 
what your selection may be, it is likely to be changed 
several times before production, for any number of 
reasons. It is a point upon which everyone connected 
with the play's presentation will feel at liberty to 
talk. At the last analysis, it will be the manager's 
selection which prevails. You see, that title must 



THE MANUSCRIPT 211 

appear on billboards and other mediums of adver- 
tisement, so it is very important; it is almost a su- 
perstition with some managers. The title alone kept 
many women away from the performances of To-day ; 
because of its implication in connection with its story. 
A woman who puts her love 'for fine clothes above 
her honor probably is true to life; but by the title 
we are given to understand that it is typical of 
American homes. Naturally, the women resented 
what they considered an insult to American woman- 
hood; this was especially true among club-women, 
though the play had a financial success among the 
unthinking public which enjoyed the play as drama 
and ignored the title's attack. Therefore, for your 
part, in preparing your manuscript for its travels 
to managers' offices, remember these facts ; the title 
must not be misleading; it must not tell too much 
of the story; it must be attractive. Above all, it 
must not be commonplace. 

So much for the general appearance of the manu- 
script — a quite necessary part of your play's prob- 
able acceptance. As in writing it, you had to re- 
member your medium, the actor, so in disposing of 
it, you must remember your manager. He must be 
hard up for a good play, or you must have a very 
big " pull " to make him delve for nuggets. I have 
seen the manuscript of a really good play so inter- 
lined and corrected that it was exceedingly difficult to 
read. Yet the writer was so shortsighted as to send 
it to readers and managers in just that shape. 



CHAPTER XIX 
THE AFTERMATH 

WHEN IT IS FINISHED THE LENGTH WHAT TO DO 

NEXT WHAT NOT TO DO LENGTHENING A SHORT 

PLAY SHORTENING A LONG PLAY REVISION 

PRACTICE " NIGGLING " DIFFICULTIES 

When it is finished. The length. You have typed 
your play, and it is ready — for what? If it is your 
first play, it is ready to be pulled to pieces and writ- 
ten over again. The typing of it has done several 
things for you. It has shown you primarily just 
how much material you have. If you have a four- 
act play and have typed a manuscript of only sixty- 
five pages, this fact alone has shown you that your 
play, as written, is too short. If you find yourself 
with close to two hundred pages, your play stands 
in need of curtailment. Incidentally, cutting out is 
easier than lengthening, for some excellent reasons 
which will be mentioned in due season. A clear- 
typed manuscript, however bad its matter, has crys- 
tallized your thought for you clean of all obstruc- 
tions of bad arrangement, correction, and inter- 
lining. 

What to do next. The next move may bring you 
to one of two courses — or you may take both. If 
you are yourself conscious of defects in any part 

2J£ 



THE AFTERMATH 213 

of the work, and yet are not sure of just where 
they lie, do with the finished manuscript what you 
were advised to do with the scenario — put it aside 
and as nearly as possible forget it — for a week, or 
a month, or longer. Go at something else, especially 
if you have been writing on the play steadily. Then 
take out your manuscript, which you will at least 
find easy to read, and in many instances the defects 
will not have to be pointed out to you. But you 
may have difficulty in knowing just how to rectify 
them. It is then you will want the help and guid- 
ance of someone who " knows the game." Or, in 
the weeks when you have been " forgetting " your 
play, you may have turned it over to some friend 
or critic on whose opinion and its honest expression 
you can rely. 

What not to do. I told you in the chapter on 
technique what not to do at this stage, and why. It 
will be a sore temptation to take your " firstling " 
where it will be praised and its writer lauded by kind 
but indiscriminating friends. If you are in earnest, 
it is the truth you want, however unpleasant, even 
brutal, it may be. It will be kinder in the end. 

Your spirit at this juncture will show your real 
mettle. Even when a play has been produced, one's 
admiring friends are neither the best nor safest 
judges. Therefore, if you rush your first-born into 
production by some amateur dramatic club — as some 
authors do — be resolved with grim determination to 
look at that play as a stranger ; not that you can — 
not that such a performance will really convince you 



214 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

of its faults — it requires experience to see them. It 
was tried in New York in the now famous lawsuit 
when a successful play was produced in the morn- 
ing, and the play from which the author claimed 
the first had been stolen was given in the afternoon. 
So supremely funny was the result that the people 
in the audience who really were sincerely sorry for 
the author, and for his sake tried hard to spare 
his sensibilities by not laughing, finally succumbed, 
helpless before a situation that even their kindly 
feeling could not meet seriously. They need not 
have worried. The author was neither hurt nor 
ashamed ; he was very angry, yet saw nothing wrong 
with his play. Though faults and mistakes in con- 
struction, which made seasoned playgoers rock in 
helpless mirth, were shown him in pitiless relief, he 
saw only injustice and an incomprehensible lack of 
appreciation of the masterpiece he had written. 

But, under kindlier circumstances, many plays by 
novices see the footlights in the author's home-town, 
presented by " local talent " — all amateurs. Every- 
one in the audience is puffed up with that very excel- 
lent thing, civic pride, pleased with knowing the 
author, interested personally, intimately, in the 
actors. Even the newspapers are kind to amateur 
theatricals, especially if the object for which they 
are given is charity. But this cannot rank as expert 
opinion. A play came to my notice some years ago, 
which had received much praise under just these 
circumstances. Positive that his dramatic success 
was assured, the proud author rushed his play out 



THE AFTERMATH 215 

into the hands of " professionals." I believe as yet 
he is thoroughly convinced of but one thing: the 
dramatic world does not know a good play when it 
sees it. Had not a large audience in Blankville 
turned out in force to see and praise their towns- 
man's masterpiece? 

Lengthening a short play.' I referred some little 
way back to " padding " a play. The tendency to 
use it is what makes lengthening a play so difficult. 
If your play has no other fault than this — its short- 
ness — remember one thing. I have said it before, 
but it must be driven home. Even though you are 
conscious that your intention is the padding out 
of the play to increase its length, whatever you add 
must be pertinent and in every way conformable with 
your idea. 

In this process of lengthening, wherever possible 
add the extra speeches and scenes to the more im- 
portant characters. In fact, if you are lengthen- 
ing your play with due regard for the singleness of 
its story, this is where the lengthening would natu- 
rally fall. That does not mean that no lines are 
to be added to the lesser characters ; wherever it is 
a vital need of your story to add a line or scene, 
add it. But do not do as a certain writer did — 
add a little something to every person in the drama. 
In the particular instance, this was done so con- 
sistently that a very unimportant character was 
brought forward to a degree which developed him 
into a real pest. In a subsidiary capacity, he had 
his value; lengthened out of proportion to that 



216 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

value, he clogged the action: he happened to be a 
comedy " bit " and it was easy to give him all the 
" g a g s " which entered the writer's head as funny. 

This advice is especially pertinent if you have a 
star-part in mind. Wherever it is consistent with 
the plot, the leading part or parts should be the ones 
to be strengthened. The hint has its commercial 
value. 

Shortening a long play. If your play's one fault 
is being too long, you are most fortunate. The task 
of toning down, paring off here and there, is much 
easier than the forced construction of new material. 
Furthermore, it will strengthen the matter left. You 
will be compelled to terseness and simplicity in spite 
of yourself. It is surprising how much can be cut 
out that you were sure was indispensable. Some 
writer — his name escapes me — has said that no 
speech should remain in a play unless the elimination 
of that speech would fog the story. It is a severe test, 
and one not always possible to follow literally. But, 
if your play is too long by twenty or thirty pages, 
try it. 

So much for the lengthening or shortening, when 
your play is otherwise in fairly good shape. Re- 
writing, revision, may mean several things quite dif- 
ferent from mere adding or cutting out. The work 
may take weeks — it may take years, especially on a 
first play. But you have this advantage: you are 
learning something with every re-writing. You will 
eliminate characters as well as speeches; shift* locali- 
ties, turn your original manuscript topsy-turvy. 



THE AFTERMATH 217 

Your last act may become your first; your least 
important character may become your best. You 
may start to write a farce, and find yourself with 
real drama. You may write a melodrama and find 
it advisable to turn it into a farce. All these things 
have been done, and the resulting plays found a 
market. That very successful farce, Officer 666, 
was at first a melodrama. 

Revision. In your work of revision you will find 
the hardest moment is the one in which you start 
to pull your beloved manuscript to pieces. If you 
have not loved it, it is not worth pulling apart. So 
it will hurt — it always does. Never mind ; the great- 
est have trod the same destructive path only to find 
it the way to salvation and knowledge. Write your 
play. Write it. 

Practice. After this, practice, practice, and more 
practice, as you write and re-write. Read and com- 
pare the old with the new, the play of thirty years 
ago with that of to-day. For instance, when Tom 
Robertson wrote Caste it was considered ultra- 
modern, most realistic in every respect. Read it; 
then compare it with one of Pinero's latest, or any 
of the recently published plays. 

A little while ago a play-manuscript reached the 
critic which showed plainly that the author had not 
seen many plays, had never read one, nor even seen 
one word on the subject of play-writing — which facts 
the author confessed to be true. Without being 
too harsh, the critic suggested that the embryo writer 
begin at the beginning, go to the theater, read plays, 



218 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

study, et cetera — and then went into detail as to 
just where and why the manuscript was wrong. In 
a few weeks a letter was received saying that the 
author had made several of the suggested changes 
and had submitted it to a New York manager! 
Knowing how much you need to learn is a great help 
at this stage of your play-writing. Not knowing, or 
refusing to realize it, only delays the day of achieve- 
ment. Sooner or later the writer mentioned will 
have to sit down and go back to the beginning of 
her task, if she ever means to write a play. 

" Niggling." Let me add a word — a word which 
is not in the vernacular of the theater, but which is 
as apt and descriptive here as in its home-place, the 
studios: "Don't niggle." Many art-students can 
draw correctly, and the first sketches of an oil- 
painting, rough, unfinished, boldly blocked in, have 
yet striking and characteristic likeness to the posing 
model, strength and breadth of touch. It is the abil- 
ity to finish these paintings without losing any of 
the original strength which separates tyro from 
artist. Some students have the unhappy faculty of 
spoiling their studies in this effort. Whether they 
ever can learn the brush-work is another story. But 
the instructor's frequent " Don't niggle " to the 
over-zealous, over-impatient pupil, who is continu- 
ally smudging out and painting in until the result 
is a characterless mess, is my advice to you now. 
One way to overcome the tendency is to do what 
you did on first completing the scenario: take your 
nervous brain and nervous fingers off for a while. 



THE AFTERMATH 219 

Too many criticisms. One very prolific cause of 
the tendency to " fuss " is the listening to too many 
critics, and trying to conform to their suggestions. 
It cannot be done without hurting your own work. 
Learn to weigh and reject. Take suggestion only 
when you can absorb it, make it a part of yourself. 
When you are convinced that your critic is right 
and you are wrong, make the changes. When you 
are convinced that the place your critic points out 
as weak is weak, strengthen that place, but not 
according to your critic's remedy unless that also 
carries- conviction. Do not act upon any suggestion 
until you see it as the right thing to do, even 
though your critic is right and you are wrong. The 
result — and the consequences — will at least be your 
own. To make a change that you neither see nor 
understand can result only in stiffness. If you are 
wrong, you will understand in time, else you will 
never be a playwright. 

Difficulties. To sum it up: You must find the 
middle ground between the haphazard dialogue and 
happenings of the novice in play-writing and the 
too manifest occurrences of the over-exact, carefully 
technical, though inexperienced, dramatist. Only 
many writings and re-writings can bring you to 
that happy place. Few first plays ever see the light 
of the stage. Sometimes the original story gets to 
the theater, but its form has usually undergone 
many changes, until it is practically no longer the 
same play. 

It toofc almost four or five complete re-writings 



220 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

of a certain play in three years before that play 
had a public presentation. The story had remained 
intact, some of the characters held their places, 
and an occasional bit of dialogue was still apt; but 
there all resemblance to the original play ended. 
The first draft was in four acts, had three dif- 
ferent settings, and contained sixteen characters. 
The present play has three acts, one setting, and 
only eight characters. So it can hardly be called 
a " first play " any longer. Yet, in this case, the 
writer had had years of experience on the stage 
and with the pen. 

You will perhaps argue that I am making this 
matter of play-writing seem unnecessarily difficult. 
It is difficult, and the more respect with which you 
approach the art, the less apt you are to tumble 
into the pitfalls awaiting the careless, cocksure 
novice. 



CHAPTER XX 
SOME PHASES OF PLAY-WRITING 

COLLABORATION DRAMATIZATION ADAPTATION 

TRANSLATION 

Collaboration. Collaboration is an excellent thing 
for the novice in play -writing. If you have a good 
idea which you can work out with someone who 
knows more of the theater than you do, you will stand 
a chance of getting your story into a fairly pre- 
sentable shape, besides learning much in the process 
of writing. 

The methods by which two or more people may 
work together on a play vary with the circumstances 
and the temperament of the individuals. Sometimes 
one may furnish the idea or the story, and the 
other will work that story into the play-form. Still, 
if you wish to learn something of play-writing, that 
will not be of much help as instruction, however 
much it may make your idea a salable one. You 
may gain some knowledge even in this way through 
seeing your plan in its new arrangement, if you study 
it carefully. 

Best, if it can be arranged, to collaborate with 
someone with whom you can work actively, talking 
over, arguing points, planning scenes and dialogues 
— watching the work as it grows. It will help you 

221 



222 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

greatly, and the necessity of proving certain points 
to you will not hurt your collaborator. 

The financial arrangements in the case of collabo- 
ration rest with the co-authors. The authors' share 
of the receipts, if the play reaches production, is 
usually divided equally between them. Copyright is 
taken out in both names, and each is half-owner. If 
the division should be one-third to two-thirds, in- 
stead of " 50-50," it is because, by mutual agreement, 
the authors have decided that one deserves the dif- 
ference because of additional creation and composi- 
tion in the writing. The arrangements are really 
personal between the writers, and the matter is only 
mentioned here because of some indefiniteness in the 
minds of certain of the laity as to just what collabo- 
ration entails. 

Dramatization. In " dramatization " — the turn- 
ing of novels and stories into plays for the theater 
— we have a sometimes popular though not always 
successful phase of play-writing. Personally — and 
remember this is only a personal opinion — I never 
knew a popular novel that was not better than the 
play made from it, or a dramatization that was not 
dependent to some extent on people's knowledge of 
the novel. There have been many financial successes 
among these dramatizations, though even with these 
successes opinions have differed as to the artistic 
result. The chief reason is that, no matter how 
clever a play has been made from the original story, 
it is impossible to get all of it into the scope of 
the theater. Someone is sure to find some favorite 



SOME PHASES OF PLAY-WRITING 223 

bit omitted ; this caviler will always report : " It is 
very disappointing — not half so good as the book ! " 
In dramatizing a well-known novel you must either 
read the story until you have absorbed it in all 
its points, then write your play without further ref- 
erence to the book for dialogue or character — or else 
you must follow the story exactly as to personali- 
ties and dialogue, being careful, however, to exclude 
everything that would keep the plot from being 
" single," the action from being continuous and 
related. 

The former of these methods comes closer to adap- 
tation of the novel than dramatization, and is pos- 
sible only when the original story was slight, or 
mediocre, or little known to the public : Shakespeare's 
reconstruction of stories and old novels is a case 
in point. The second one is the only one really 
permissible in the dramatization of a popular and 
well-known novel — a " best-seller." For a dramatist 
to take liberties with the novelist's story beyond the 
point necessary for theatrical presentation is an 
offense to everyone who enjoyed reading the book. 
A well-known playwright had a very decided failure, 
dramatic and financial, when he tried it in The Ne'er- 
Do-Well, by Rex Beach. Unpardonable changes 
were made in the personality of sundry characters, 
and one very charming creation of the novelist's 
was omitted entirely, an omission which altered the 
entire story. These cogs taken out, or loosened, the 
result was dire. On the other hand, George Cohan 
succeeded where Charles Klein failed. Seven Keys to 



224 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

BcUdpate as a play left nothing to be desired, though 
materially different from the novel of the same name. 
Yet, even here, those who had read the story before 
seeing the play were divided in their opinions as to 
the improvement. But in both novel and play the 
spirit was farcical, so that the alteration was in mate- 
rial rather than in spirit. 

Sometimes it is possible to dramatize a short story 
with some degree of success because of the compact- 
ness of this form of writing. At least, it is a good 
method for practice for the student of play-writing. 
Just as the writer of prose is advised to take a verse 
from one of the masterpieces of poetry to paraphrase 
it into prose, for the sake of learning how to couch 
a fine idea in adequate language with freedom of 
expression, so one may take an idea in a story 
and turn it into a play with the same ideal of prac- 
tice in construction. Otherwise dramatization is 
work the novice had better let alone. 

Translation. Another recognized phase of writ- 
ing for the theater is the translation and adaptation 
of plays in other tongues. The work of merely trans- 
lating, literally, the original play is comparatively 
simple. But much more than this is necessary. The 
author's speech may be all fire ; the translation may 
contain the bare meaning of the speech with all the 
fire left out. The dramatic intention of the writer 
must pass from one language to the other. The 
fiery speech may be a climax ; the translation, how- 
ever exact, may be so tame as to completely drop 
that climax. This is where adaptation becomes nee- 



SOME PHASES OF PLAY-WRITING 

essary. The translator need not be a dramatist; 
the adapter must be. For that reason two people 
are frequently responsible for the presentation of 
a foreign play in English, one acting in each of 
these capacities. But where translator and adapter 
are one, experience is necessary. Adaptation of dia- 
logue from one language to another is an art requir- 
ing a native ability to write, together with a com- 
plete knowledge of both languages. 

Adaptation. When the adapter goes further than 
merely making the language of the translator take 
on the same tempo and coloring of the original, he 
encounters many difficulties which he does not always 
override. For instance, to supposedly bring the play 
nearer to the comprehension of the audiences, scenes 
laid in France or Germany are lifted bodily to lo- 
calities in England or the United States. Sometimes 
the result is successful ; oftenest it is not. Situations 
which were normal in their original environment be- 
come freakish, incomprehensible, when transplanted. 
The atmosphere is destroyed, the play ruined. 
Transplanting may be a legitimate part of adapta- 
tion, and when really legitimate, is excusable. But 
frequently this transplanting has no real excuse, 
except, perhaps, the vanity of the adapter or the 
insular narrowness of the community demanding it. 

A particularly striking example comes to mind. 
The original play was in Yiddish, laid among a cer- 
tain class of immigrants in New York. Among these 
people, played by actors who knew the types they 
portrayed, the play had reason, strength, drama. 



WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

For some inexplicable reason, when the play was 
translated, it was adapted to American life in New 
York, the characters all American, the locality a 
fashionable uptown neighborhood. Immediately, 
everything was distorted, out of key. What had 
been correct, possible, became impossible, and most 
un-American. The story remained, but it was false 
to the conditions, and to the environment in which 
the characters moved. 

It would seem that the conclusion to be drawn from 
the foregoing is that only such adaptation should be 
used as will make the translation as dramatic in one 
language as in its original. Great skill is necessary 
to change both language and nationality, The chief 
offender in this regard has been England. The Eng- 
lishman prefers to see himself on the stage, there- 
fore even American plays, except those of rural 
character, must be adapted to English life. Even 
Ibsen's plays have been shifted from Norway to Eng- 
land, and most of Sardou's were first played in Eng- 
lish with English instead of French characters. Fre- 
quently great liberties were taken with the originals : 
a dramatization of Sardou's Odette not only shifted 
language and country, but entirely changed the 
finale. 

This sin of changing an author's intention in a 
play produced far from its nativity is one unfor- 
tunately well known to the United States. Even 
though we are usually willing to witness a trans- 
lation in which characters play their parts in the 
locality where the author put them, our managers 






SOME PHASES OF PLAY-WRITING 227 

have a mistaken idea that in the matter of endings 
we must be treated gently. In some cases, the 
authors have themselves fallen in with this notion, 
and connived with the manager in writing a dif- 
ferent ending for the States. This was the case in 
both Israel and The New Sin. But, as a very large 
number of Americans go abroad each year and see 
these plays in the original, the change is usually 
noted and often resented. 

It is easy to see in all this that adaptation, like 
dramatization, is not work for the novice — except for 
his own private amusement and what practice he may 
find in it. 



CHAPTER XXI 
OTHER PHASES OF PLAY-WRITING 

BLANK VERSE HISTORICAL. AND BIBLICAL PLAYS 

SYMBOLICAL AND ALLEGORICAL PLAYS PLAYS FOR 

AMATEURS, SCHOOLS, ETC. 

Blank verse. The matter of writing plays in 
blank verse comes up as a question. To the novice 
I would say emphatically, " Don't." If you must 
write your play in verse, publish it as a book if you 
can find a publisher; do not expect a sale or a big 
success for it as a play. For practical reasons, we 
can take the manager's point of view ; since at present 
he controls the situation, his point of view is impor- 
tant. Versified drama, from the very nature of the 
subjects of which it treats, requires expensive set- 
tings, and frequently quite a number of them. Plays 
in verse, fine in subject and treatment, even when 
written by the masters of poetry, have not been such 
financial success as to encourage the attempt by a 
beginner of this difficult form of play-writing. One 
of the cleverest plays of this kind I ever read has 
never to my knowledge seen the footlights. The 
author had it published: I believe it had a sale; he 
also gave readings of it. But no manager has ever 
risked putting it on the stage. 

Except for fairy pieces, or fantastic, symbolical, 
228 



OTHER PHASES OF PLAY-WRITING 229 

or allegorical plays, blank verse is really antiquated. 
With a musical setting, as in grand opera, poetry 
has a legitimate place. 'But in the modern theater, 
written around , human beings, the tendency is to 
reflect life as it ought to be, not as it never was 
nor ever will be. In the unusual, the supernatural, 
it seems a legitimate vehicle. With people, real peo- 
ple, of any time or place, it is neither natural nor 
true. When the stage ceased to be a platform, and 
receded within a complete border of lights, so that 
the audience looked on, as it were, at real human 
happenings, the demand grew, more and more, that 
those people should preserve the idea of life, by 
speaking and acting like ordinary mortals. There- 
fore, modern blank verse, in dealing with human 
affairs past or present, belongs in the class of the 
purely literary or " closet-drama." However beau- 
tiful, it is a false and unreal medium for this day 
and time. 

One reason why verse is wrong in the present-day 
drama is that it is difficult to make it conform to 
one of the strictest laws of play-writing: nothing 
must be permitted to find place in the play which 
is not fully needed. . In verse, the tendency is to 
follow some metaphor, or beautiful thought, through 
the by-ways of well-chosen words and rhythmical 
lines, frequently wandering far afield into long 
declamatory speeches which are both unnatural and 
infringing on the action. To keep verse strictly 
within the law which holds ordinary dialogue to 
pertinency requires something closely approaching 



230 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

genius. Ibsen's opinion is of value at this point. 
Montrose J. Moses, in his work on Ibsen, says : " In 
a letter to the Norwegian actress, Lucie Wolf, sent 
from Rome on May 25, 1883, Ibsen delivered him- 
self of his views. ... So thoroughly had he been 
torn from his old moorings as to believe firmly that 
verse had done more injury than good to the drama; 
were he an actor he would refuse to utter a line 
of conventional rhythm, but as a dramatist, he could, 
and he would, persist in declining to perpetuate the 
form which he believed was fast growing obsolete." 

When dealing with the fantastic or occult, verse 
does not seem so out of key. Yet even in successful 
dramas of this sort, there are many places where 
the poet has deliberately dropped verse and taken 
to prose, for the simple reason that certain charac- 
ters or certain episodes demand unevenness, lack of 
rhythm and harmony. Think of the great poets 
who have failed as dramatists partly because they 
looked down on the theater and would not study 
it, partly because the people, that large public which 
goes to the theater, prefer to see themselves and 
their kind on the stage. With the possible exception 
of Browning, not one scored a real success ; and even 
Browning's full success in this direction has b.een 
many times disputed. In Tiger, a one-act play by 
Witter Bynner, we have the nearest approach to an 
entirely natural blank verse for the stage I have 
known. The lines sound like prose, except for a 
certain hardly noticeable rhythm. And even the 
actors' speaking of these lines would cause them to 



OTHER PHASES OF PLAY-WRITING 231 

lose some of this rhythm. Acted, the play gives no 
impression of its versification. Therefore, excellent 
as it is, it might just as well have been prose. But 
Mr. Bynner's success is not to be achieved by every- 
one. And as I am writing solely for the student, 
the novice in play-writing, I can only repeat, 
" Don't." 

Historical and Biblical plays. In the Historical 
Drama, among which may be included Biblical plays, 
we have a form of writing which may be dealt with 
by the dramatist in two ways. The first of these 
puts the composition immediately in the class where 
the usual rules of play-writing must be followed. 
That is, to take one particular -episode in history 
or the Bible as the story or plot, and weave a drama 
with that one plot as its mainspring, using only such 
facts and characters from history as will help the 
presentation ; the rest is the author's imagination. 
Such a play is Madame Sans-Gene, later re-written 
as a comic opera, The Duchess of Dantzig, and finally 
turned into grand opera by Giordono, which takes 
up only that part of the life of Napoleon which 
touches his dealings with the Duchess. 

The other method is much more complicated, be- 
cause it has no vital plot or story, but takes its 
theme from the character whose life is being drama- 
tized, or from a section of history covering many 
years. This method is most difficult, because it usu- 
ally follows the original story more closely and makes 
necessary the decisions as to just what to discard 
and what to use : how to bring certain widely parted 



WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

events closer together without sacrificing too many 
of the facts as known: which real characters to use, 
which others to create, and so on. In method it is 
not unlike the dramatization of a novel when the 
effort is to follow the material closely. The chief 
difficulty is to find some one thread or idea, some 
motive beyond the presentation of a particular char- 
acter, which will hold the play together. One of 
the most perfect specimens of how this may be done 
is Louis N. Parker's Joseph and His Brethren, in 
which the connecting motive is the love and jealousy 
of a woman whose acts are made the cause of all 
the evil which comes to Joseph. Several times the 
episode of Potiphar's wife has been made the subject 
of drama, with the play written solely around her 
love and its scorning: the events leading to it and 
away from it. But in Mr. Parker's play we see 
Joseph, from his receiving of the coat of many colors 
to the arrival of his father and brothers in Egypt: 
practically all of his career as related in Genesis. 
And the dramatist, to do this and still hold it to- 
gether as drama, has skillfully extended the influ- 
ence of Potiphar's wife back to the date of Joseph's 
rescue from the pit, and carried it forward to her 
effort to trick one of his brothers into killing him 
at the height of his success in Egypt. 

This form of drama, like blank verse, is not to be 
lightly attempted by the student. It will save you 
many heart-aches if you let it alone until you know 
more about the theater and the play. You may won- 
der why I speak of any of these difficult and obscure 



OTHER PHASES OF PLAY-WRITING 233 

forms at all. Because, all too frequently, it is these 
very forms which most attract the student, espe- 
cially the student who wishes to soar high. Yet all 
of them belong to the kind of work requiring an 
expert. Start at the beginning: you must, if you 
mean to get anywhere. , 

Symbolical and allegorical plays. Another class 
of plays difficult to describe because it belongs to the 
realm of the imaginary and depends almost entirely 
on inspiration, and difficult to write because it must 
conform to the rules of the theater while seeming 
to transgress all of them, is that comprising the sym- 
bolical and allegorical plays. Many of these have 
had their measure of success lately : The Blue Bird, 
Chantecler, Everywoman, and more recently The 
Good Little Devil, The Poor Little Rich Girl, and 
Experience. Since most of these are published in 
book-form, they are at hand to be studied. 

However, a word or two may be said in regard 
to symbolism. There should be no blurring. 
Metaphorical images and symbols should be unmis- 
takable in meaning and intention, in application and 
position. Your audience must grasp your idea un- 
failingly, not just happen on it. Therefore, all 
your symbolism should be of a kind to be understood 
and not too remote or too occult. Remember, you 
are not yet a Maeterlinck ! It must be simple and 
single, not complicated. If you are personifying fire, 
which is a concrete thing, or pride, which is abstract, 
the personifications must take on only the attributes 
applicable to the especial thing you are typifying. 



234 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

I remember in a very charming little allegory read 
some time ago, Conscience and Truth were person- 
ified. Conscience guided Truth, and Truth was si- 
lenced by Wrong. The treatment and interpreta- 
tion were both confusing and incorrect. As gener- 
ally understood, Truth is absolute, and guides Con- 
science, not the other way around. Wrong can 
silence Conscience, but Truth eternally is, and may 
be ignored, but not affected. Do you see my mean- 
ing? In personifying, you must give your char- 
acters the absolute meaning of the terms sym- 
bolized. Do not mix your symbols ; it is much 
worse than a mixed metaphor, and far more con- 
fusing. 

Plays for amateurs. With plays intended only 
for the use of amateurs, written for some specific 
occasion, or to be used in schools and clubs, there is 
more laxity in construction; not because the rules 
of construction are any less a fact, but because 
the medium is less hampered by these rules and the 
audience less critical under the circumstances. Nev- 
ertheless, there are numbers of writers who have mas- 
tered enough of the laws governing play-writing to 
be able to dispose of such plays — masques, pageants, 
" entertainments " — to publishers who make a busi- 
ness of catering to amateurs, or to magazines which 
like to print an occasional play of the kind for the 
use of children, and others. 

As the different educational theaters grow and 
spread, more and more material of this kind will 
be demanded, and rules will become more exacting 






OTHER PHASES OF PLAY-WRITING 235 

as the field grows wider. Therefore, whether you 
are writing a play for some company of Boy Scouts, 
or for some great star of the theatrical firmament, 
you will do well' to be as critical of your own work 
in one case as in the other, however different the 
material may be. You have no more right to -offend 
the intelligence of an indulgent audience than that 
of one more exacting. 

As a usual thing, plays for purposes of enter- 
tainment are published. Therefore, in addition to 
the rules governing the telling of your story there 
are several which will help the sale of your mate- 
rial, because making it more widely available. If 
the play has a purpose beyond that of mere amuse- 
ment — as in the case of plays written for particu- 
lar occasions or for instruction — a preface generally 
states a few facts, explanatory to the teacher or 
other person who may take charge of affairs. Such 
prefaces not only contain the description of scenery 
and costume, but also hints as to economical make- 
shifts for these. Instructions should be clear, and 
as easy to follow as possible. Though the play may 
be printed, keep in mind all that the dramatist is 
cautioned to remember: it is to be acted by people, 
whether children or adults, and must be capable of 
such rendition. The same laws governing the dif- 
ference between business and dialogue as spoken of 
in earlier chapters are to be observed. You cannot 
bridge a gap by a descriptive paragraph meant only 
for the reader any more in these plays than in the 
bigger play for the real theater. All descriptions 



236 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

are meant for potential performers and their di- 
rectors. You are to ignore the fact of a reading 
public. Only thus will you keep within bounds, and 
achieve a play which will at least be consistent and 
capable of being understood when acted. 



' CHAPTER XXII 
ONE-ACT Pl^AYS 

CURTAIN-RAISERS VAUDEVILLE DRAMATIC SKETCHES 

COMEDY AND FARCICAL SKETCHES " SLAP- 
STICK " SKETCHES SCENIC OR FEATURE SKETCHES 

MUSICAL SKETCHES THE " CURTAIN " AMA- 
TEUR THEATRICALS 

Up to this time, we have been dealing with the long 
play in its various phases. We can now take up 
the shorter or one-act play, which will run, in acting 
time, anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour, 
according to the subject. 

As used in^the theater of to-day, we might roughly 
divide such plays into curtain-raisers, vaudeville 
sketches, and a third class suitable for amateur 
theatricals. 

Curtain-raisers. At the present writing there is 
but little use for the first of these, although if such 
a playlet is sufficiently unusual or powerful, it may 
be used to eke out an evening's performance. Yet, 
in a whole New York season there may be not one 
on the stage. It is only very occasionally one sees 
a Carrots, an 'Op-o'-Me-Thumb, or a Twelve-Pound 
Look as a part of the performance in a legitimate 
theater, except on some large benefit programme. The 
one-time curtain-raiser has been pressed into serv- 

237 



238 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

ice by the up-to-date manager of vaudeville, and we 
therefore find ourselves taking up that class of one- 
act plays as the most important of the three. The 
success of a theater in New York which deals only 
with one-act plays should do much to raise the 
caliber of the one-act drama. It presents a wide field 
for good writers, and the demand in consequence 
may grow. In any case, the one-act play is excel- 
lent practice for the beginner in dramatic writing, 
in addition to its presenting a form worthy of our 
best playwrights. It is popular in Germany, France, 
Spain, and some of the foremost dramatists of those 
countries have given it of their best. Many one-act 
plays are gems: witness those of Lady Gregory, J. 
M. Barrie, and others. Since the form usually deals 
with but one episode and few characters, it makes 
for conciseness in treatment and demands clearness 
in exposition. These facts alone show its value as 
practice for the novice, who is too prone to spread 
unimportant matters over quantities of paper. In 
this connection, read the chapter on the one- 
act play in Clayton Hamilton's Studies in Stage- 
craft. 

Vaudeville. The vaudeville sketch as it is to-day 
can be subdivided into the dramatic, the comedy, the 
scenic or feature sketch, and the " slap-stick " or spe- 
cialty sketch. There are various shades and kinds 
of these which we will try to take up, and the lines 
of division are not always strongly drawn. 

Dramatic sketches. The first, the dramatic 
sketch, is the same order of play in subject and 



ONE-ACT PLAYS 239 

treatment as the usual curtain-raiser. And yet, 
since written for vaudeville, as part of a bill which 
includes everything from circus acts to grand-opera 
sopranos, it will be played before a mixed audience 
of varied tastes, and must have that dreadful thing 
which managers call a " punch." No one can ex- 
actly define this strange ingredient, and the demand 
for it has often killed good work. The dramatic 
sketch is frequently used by some well-known actor 
or actress taking a " flyer " in vaudeville in an off- 
season, and the actor's name rather than the sketch 
may be the real drawing-card. But, as a general 
rule, the sketch must contain something unusual, or 
some opportunities for excellent acting. A dramatic 
sketch which is tragic or pathetic must make up for 
what is really a vaudeville defect by being out of 
the ordinary in every point — story, writing, acting; 
the sketch which is too serious, as a rule, is not 
popular with vaudeville managers, or with many 
audiences. As vaudeville stands just now, unfortu- 
nately, it is the manager who must be pleased, not 
the audience; knowing this, he rejoices in being 
exceedingly arbitrary. An anecdote is told around 
the offices on Broadway, which may or may not be 
true, but which illustrates the usual attitude of the 
average vaudeville manager — fortunately for good 
work, there are most hopeful exceptions : A certain 
actor, arguing with one of these czars about the 
qualities of his play which had just had its " try- 
out " performance before an audience, said : " But 
they laughed heartily ! " The answer he received 



240 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

was : " What the do I cs&l You gotta make 

me laugh ! " 

The one-act play intended for vaudeville never 
runs longer than half an hour, and that only in 
the musical and scenic sketches. Consequently, since 
brevity is a desideratum, compression is necessary. 
Your play must begin at once, get to its climax 
quickly, and terminate just at the right moment, 
with the threads properly straightened out, or with 
such straightening clearty suggested. Therefore, do 
not try to put into this form a story requiring 
psychological development or growth. It should be 
distinctly of one episode, and with as few characters 
as are possible to tell the story. George Arliss said 
in an interview in regard to the vaudeville sketch: 
" I say that it doesn't permit the finer effects be- 
cause it doesn't give time enough. You require 
more leisure to establish an atmosphere than the 
allotted twenty minutes permits." 

" Slap-stick." We can dismiss the " slap-stick " 
sketch in a few words. It is very thin as to story, 
being usually more than half written by the players 
themselves, depending chiefly on novelty, or fun, or^ 
real " horse-play " for its success. It is amended 
or changed according to the way this part or that 
happens to " go " at a performance. 

Comedy and farce. The comedy sketch is more 
apt to be farce than straight comedy. If a farce, 
it plays preferably about twenty minutes, and the 
more rapid the movement the better. Here, as in the 
longer play, the fewer characters with which you 



ONE-ACT PLAYS 241 

tell your story, theiimore chance you have of dis- 
posing of your sketch. If it has but two people 
and will play .fast and furiously for twenty or 
twenty-two minutes, there is a market. Every char- 
acter over that adds to the cost of presentation, and 
will be considered by the would-be purchaser. Still, 
as in the longer play, if you have a good idea, use 
the characters you need. The writing of the one- 
act play is good practice, even if you find no imme- 
diate market. And many an interesting playlet finds 
at least an audience at some club, or benefit, or church 
entertainment, and you can judge something of the 
effect of your work. 

If your playlet demands special scenery, costum- 
ing, a large cast, and other extras, it stands almost 
no chance of a sale, unless its originality and nov- 
elty are so unusual as to attract some vaudeville 
manager who happens to be looking for just that sort 
of thing. Every one of these matters adds to the 
expense; if to the cost of production you add rail- 
road fares, express charges, tips to stage-hands, to 
say nothing of the demands of the stage-carpenters' 
jinion, you will readily understand an actor's hesita- 
tion in assuming such risks. The ideal sketch for 
vaudeville has two, three, or four characters, de- 
mands no " props " or scenery to be carried from 
theater to theater (as the required properties and 
setting are of a kind to be found in every theater 
property-room), and calls for no special service from 
the stage-hands, such as telephone-bells, outside 
noises, et cetera. If the story is good and gives the 



242 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

actors any opportunities in addition to the preced- 
ing conditions, your market is waiting. Mind, the 
foregoing is an ideal : it is rarely realized. Yet Hall 
McAllister, in Quits, which has been played by Wil- 
ton Lackaye, has written a dramatic sketch which 
goes beyond this ideal by only a narrow margin: 
it has three characters, and its only necessary prop- 
erties are a sofa large enough to conceal one of 
the characters, and an ornamental stand of arms 
for the wall. Everything else, furnishings, scenery, 
pictures, are the ordinary fixtures of any well- 
equipped theater — and even the sofa and arms are 
possible assets of a property-room. 

Scenic or feature sketch. The scenic or feature 
sketch has also its sub-divisions: the poetic or alle- 
gorical, the fairy spectacle, and the musical. These 
are always expensive, yet many vaudeville managers 
like an occasional " act " of the kind on a bill. The 
musical acts may range all the way from a one-act 
comic- or even grand-opera, to an act with the story 
so slim that it just holds together the songs and 
dances which are its main features. 

The "curtain." The best way to judge of this 
market is to see an occasional vaudeville perform- 
ance. There is one thing on which all old-timers 
in this line insist: whatever the sketch, the curtain 
scene or speech, the finale, must call forth the big- 
gest laugh, or excite the strongest thrill of the 
act. This does not always mean that the curtain 
must fall at the play's climax, any more than that 
it should do so in a long play. But the lines, or 



ONE-ACT PLAYS MS 

the situation, or the " picture " at the moment of 
the curtain's fall must be good. Many a poor sketch 
holds its place- because of this " punch " at the 
finish; many a good sketch falls down because the 
ending, however good dramatically, fails of being 
what vaudevillians call " a great curtain." It can- 
not be described, because the thing needful for this 
punch varies with every playlet. One man has an 
excellent little play, but cannot get it on the booking 
of the "big time" (the first-class houses in large 
cities) because he has not yet found a satisfactory 
curtain: he has tried for several seasons to think 
out something unusual or " snappy." In the mean- 
time, he plays it on the " small time." 

Yet, as usual, there is the occasional exception, 
showing that in this as in everything else in play- 
writing, there is no set rule. A well-known and suc- 
cessful vaudeville star tells of a dramatic sketch 
in which he and his wife played. He tried eleven 
different " surprise " endings without success. Then, 
as a last resort, he took the simply logical finale 
with an utterly bromide line for his curtain speech, 
and the sketch played to his utmost satisfaction for 
more than two years. 

Amateur theatricals. In the playlet for amateur 
theatricals, all that has been said on this subject 
in the previous chapter is pertinent. It has a market 
with publishers who make a business of that sort 
of play. One word of advice in regard to all plays 
intended for amateurs is timely just here. The less 
acting required, the better. 



CHAPTER XXIII 
THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 

LEASING THE PLAY REACHING THE MANAGER RULES 

OF SOME MANAGERS LAWSUITS UNSOLICITED 

MANUSCRIPTS PLAY-BROKERS " STAR " PARTS 

THE PERSONAL EQUATION THE WESTERN MAR- 
KET ROYALTIES THE CONTRACT MOVING-PIC- 

TURE RIGHTS STOCK RIGHTS AUTHOR'S NAME 

CONTRACTS FOR VAUDEVILLE SKETCHES 

AGENT'S FEES COPYRIGHT PLAY-PIRACY 

Leasing the play. With your play written — or 
re-written — and finished to your liking, your next 
step of course is to get it to its proper place, the 
theater. The aim is to lease it to some reputable 
manager, receiving a bonus as advance royalty, and 
a percentage of the receipts of the box-office. This 
percentage varies with the playwright's reputation 
and the manager's pocketbook. 

It is never advisable to sell a play outright. The 
only excuse for doing so is an urgent need of ready 
money. Plays have been sold in this way for small 
sums and have never after seen the light. You may 
ask why they were bought at all. Perhaps the man- 
ager saw a possibility, and $200 was a small sum 
to pay for the entire ownership of that possibility; 
then, bigger things coming up, the whole matter was 

244 



THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 245 

pigeon-holed. I do not know the reason : I only know 
it has happened. 

Reaching the manager. To get to the manager 
is another matter. If you can reach him personally 
or by letter so much to your advantage. In the 
latter case it is just as well to tell him that your 
play is of such and such a nature, outlining very 
briefly the theme, and that there are so many char- 
acters, acts, and changes of scenery. I have spoken 
in other chapters of the effect the number of these 
may have on the leasing of your play. If he is 
interested, you may be asked to send the manuscript, 
or to submit a scenario. This scenario, written from 
your completed play, should be as short as is con- 
sistent with a clear outline of the story. Do not send 
a scenario to a manager unless asked. And even 
then, experienced playwrights much prefer to sub- 
mit the entire play. Let me quote the remarks of 
a play-reader employed by a well-known firm, who 
recently gave his views to the New York Sunday 
Times: "Professional dramatists will say, almost 
without exception, that an author is unwise to sub- 
mit his work in scenario form. If a scenario is prop- 
erly made (and that is a rare thing) it still offers 
a most inadequate idea of what the completed play 
will be. It provides a vague idea of the material 
employed, and something more definite about the 
construction, but practically nothing of the treat- 
ment of the piece — that is, nothing to supply the 
tone of the work, the dialogue or action of the mo- 
ment, which, inasmuch as the audience is an eye- 



246 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

witness, is the most imperative thing in the drama. 
... I have never received a scenario from an estab- 
lished dramatist." 

Rules of some managers. Unsolicited MSS. As 
a general rule it is not a good plan to send a play- 
manuscript to a manager through any common car- 
rier without his knowledge or desire. Offices are 
deluged with play-manuscripts of all degrees of bad- 
ness. Some may be read, if at a glance they look 
promising; others never are. At least two New 
York managers recently refused absolutely to read 
unsolicited material: one of these warned all senders 
of such manuscripts that the plays would be dropped 
unread into the waste-paper basket; the other an- 
nounced a reading fee of two dollars from all such 
writers, which sum he facetiously proclaimed would be 
put toward a fund for protection in lawsuits. Such 
rulings the unknown playwright has brought on him- 
self. Manuscripts forced on the manager against 
his will and without his desire have frequently been 
the cause of unnecessary and ridiculous lawsuits. A 
play is produced and achieves success. Immediately 
every writer who has submitted a play to that par- 
ticular manager finds in the success certain resem- 
blances to his own play and promptly sues for 
theft of his material. In most cases the suit is a 
difficult one for the writer, because he must prove 
that the manager really has seen his manuscript. If 
it happens to be one which was sent in without 
suggestion of the manager, the latter can very prop- 
erly claim that he never saw it, did not even know 



THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 247 

such a MS. was in his office. This does not mean 
that plots from plays by unknown writers have not 
been filched by the unscrupulous. Unfortunately, 
such things have' happened, and will happen. All the 
more reason for the playwright to protect himself 
by sending his manuscript where he can follow its 
progress, or know definitely of its receipt. 

Lawsuits. Should you send your manuscript, un- 
solicited, and find some time later a play produced by 
the recipient of your effort, make sure any resem- 
blances are actual before rushing into a lawsuit. Re- 
member that original episodes and incidents are ex- 
tremely rare in real life. One writer has, I think, 
said that, all told, there are only some twenty-odd 
plots in the world. That may or may not be true, 
but it only shows how very likely it is that several 
different minds might be thinking along the same 
lines. You must prove that the material was taken 
from yours, and to do that the resemblance must be 
striking. Only recently a manager who had been 
continually harried with such suits decided to show 
up an author who had brought suit regarding theft 
of plot, et cetera, by producing both plays, properly 
cast and acted. The result was one of the biggest 
jokes in the history of the New York stage. Actu- 
ally, the only resemblance between the two plays 
was that both were given by actors, on a stage, and, 
I believe, two of the characters had the same Chris- 
tian name ! It would have been well had either the 
unfortunate author or his lawyer known more about 
both plays. 



MS WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

Play-brokers. Therefore, if you cannot reach the 
manager in person, by letter, or through some mu- 
tual acquaintance, the next best way is to take or 
send your play to a play agent. There are sev- 
eral of excellent reputation. Naturally they will 
only handle plays for which they feel there is a 
market; therefore, they give the manager a rea- 
sonable assurance that the play presented will not 
be entirely impossible, and he, or his play-reader, 
is apt to look it over. " Looking it over " is no 
figure of speech ; that is all the attention many plays 
receive. Which emphasizes all I have said in other 
chapters about the attractive and workmanlike ap- 
pearance of the manuscript. 

" Star " parts. If the play contains a big part 
suitable to some particular actor or actress, you may 
find the players more approachable than the man- 
ager. Though, unless he or she is a star with a 
share in the business side of the enterprise, the last 
word lies with the manager. 

Books and plays. This matter of placing your 
play is one of the most trying and heart-breaking 
of the newcomer's troubles. We are told that Clyde 
Fitch carried one of his plays around for two years 
before it was produced ; and The Climbers was re- 
fused by nearly every manager in the metropolis be- 
fore Miss Amelia Bingham accepted it, with profit 
both to herself and the author. It is harder to have 
a play produced than to have a book published. 
The reason is a matter of simple arithmetic. To be- 
gin with, the manager's initial expenses may run 



THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 249 

into five and sometimes six figures, whereas a pub- 
lisher's preliminary expenses may be easily covered 
by from five to seven hundred dollars. Then, there 
is a tremendous difference in the output. In one 
year in the United States, the number of published 
books will amount to more than twelve thousand. In 
one year in New York, the chief producing center 
of the country, the number of plays produced will 
be less than one hundred and fifty. Add to this the 
possible one hundred new plays which may be pro- 
duced in other American cities, never reaching New 
York (and one hundred is a generous margin), there 
would be, all told, about two hundred and fifty plays 
produced in a year in the United States. With these 
numbers confronting you it is easy to see why a 
publisher is likely to read everything which does 
not give evidence at once of being either illiterate 
or contrary to the policy of the house, where a 
manager, knowing he can produce only so many 
plays a year, is not compelled to read anything 
unless it shows easily that the writer has some knowl- 
edge of the theater. In this connection, you might 
find The True Adventures of a Play, by Louis Evans 
Shipman, instructive reading, since it shows some of 
the difficulties encountered by a professional MS. 
which seems to have been liked by all who read it, 
but which nevertheless met the usual number of de- 
lays and arguments. Also, if you can get it, read 
Breaking into the Playhouse in the Saturday Even- 
ing Post for February 21, 1914. 

The personal equation. I have not mentioned one 



250 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

other difficulty which confronts the dramatist in his 
efforts to dispose of his play, because that difficulty 
is one which is faced by anyone desirous of mar- 
keting any kind of writing: the personal equation. 
Some managers maintain a play-reader. The read- 
ing of many plays is difficult in the extreme. Once 
in a while, after a welter of impossible concoctions, 
the reader comes across something which is readable, 
or so he thinks. But it is often only because all the 
others have been so hopelessly bad that by very 
force of contrast this one seems good. This may 
explain why so many prize-winning compositions are 
rarely what prize-winners should be — the best of 
their kind. Also, in the personal equation come the 
individual prejudices of the reader. An excellent 
play was once turned down by a reader because, as 
she told the author, she was of such and such a 
religious faith and it would be against her prin- 
ciples to recommend such a play for presentation 
to the public, in spite of its dramatic excellences. 

A manager or reader will refuse a play because 
he himself cannot see a certain phase or argument 
or situation as possible, and lacks the larger vision 
to take in the other fellow's point of view. But, 
as I said, in all branches of art where it strikes the 
world of competition in the market-place these per- 
sonal opinions either stand in the way or are the 
means of speedy acceptance. So the dramatist is 
not alone in facing the situation, and if his play is 
good, someone there will be who will see his premises 
and produce it. 



THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 251 

The Western market. Just a word at this point 
to writers far from Broadway. Remember that New 
York is not the only producing center in the United 
States. Many a play has reached the metropolis by 
way of Boston, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles, 
or some other large city where the theater is popu- 
lar. Also, plays have been " tried out " in some good 
stock company where an opportunity was given to 
producing managers to see it. Do not neglect the 
opportunities near home to rush your manuscript 
several thousand miles away. 

Royalties. With the actual money side there are 
several arrangements possible or usual. I have 
spoken of royalties. These are a certain percentage 
of the weekly receipts while a play is running at 
any theater or theaters. The royalty arrangement 
is the only one a dramatist should consider with 
regard to a long play. I will deal with the vaude- 
ville arrangement later. 

Royalties are computed on the gross weekly re- 
ceipts during the play's run. The author signs a 
contract with the producer in which the latter agrees 
to pay anywhere from 2^ per cent, to 10 per cent, 
of these receipts. Never sign a contract computing 
the royalties^ on the net receipts. Frequently the 
royalties are arranged on a sliding scale : such a per- 
centage up to a certain sum, such a percentage up 
to a certain amount over that, and so on. It is 
only in this sliding-scale arrangement that as low a 
royalty as 2^ per cent, should be considered. It is 
a royalty never offered to the experienced dramatist 



252 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

in any case. A very frequent arrangement is 5 per 
cent, on all up to five thousand dollars, and 10 per 
cent, on all over that. As has been said, these ar- 
rangements vary with the reputation of the writer 
and the standing of the manager. Of course, your 
ideal is to reach the best known of these. But it 
is not always possible. Frequently plays not quite 
pleasing, for one reason or another, to the big man- 
ager, will find production through some " star " ap- 
pearing only " on the road." This arrangement may 
not be of any particular service in helping you to 
reach Broadway, but it will be of use to you in 
the encouragement to try again and aim higher. 

The contract. There are several things to re- 
member, and a few to avoid. I will try to touch 
on them as briefly as possible. Sometimes on a 
first play an author may waive the bonus or ad- 
vance royalty. Though,' if the play is good enough 
to be produced at all, there is no real reason why 
this should be done. A manager always should agree 
to produce the play before a certain date — sometimes 
as long as a twelvemonth away — or else forfeit his 
rights, and the bonus already paid the author. Also, 
the contract should stipulate that, if the manager 
fails to produce the play for a certain period each 
year (the smallest number is fifty performances) 
from the date of production, the agreement is at 
an end and the play reverts to the author. Royal- 
ties are contracted to be paid within at least ten 
days after they are due. These three points should 
never be omitted from a contract. 



THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 253 

Rights. The author holds the copyright for his 
play, and should reserve the right of publication (in 
play-form), also the English and foreign dramatic 
rights. When desired these can be assigned to the 
manager in proper form. In the matter of the Eng- 
lish rights, the manager can be 1 given an option which 
must be exercised within one month after produc- 
tion. The contract should contain some such word- 
ing as the following : the play is leased " for terri- 
tory hereinafter specifically described." The " ter- 
ritory " is usually specified as the United States and 
Canada. All rights not so mentioned belong to the 
author. 

Moving-picture rights. The moving-picture rights 
in a play nowadays are always included in a contract. 
The producer agrees to pay the dramatist at least 
33i per cent., preferably and usually 50 per cent., 
and I understand the Authors' League maintains that 
75 per cent, is the proper rate, of the royalty re- 
ceived from the moving-picture company. The idea 
back of this last percentage is that, unless the man- 
ager is himself the proprietor of the moving-picture 
company, he acts only as the agent who has leased 
the play. But at present the " 50-50 " arrangement 
is the most usual. The courts have held — though not 
settled — that the picture rights are separate from 
the dramatic rights. Certainly, in equity, the author 
should not divide the rights. If he retains them, 
he will agree not to lease the picture rights until 
a certain period after the play's production, usu- 
ally two years. The picture rights should not be 



254 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

leased until the play's run is ended, whether that 
run is one season or several. This seems only fair 
to the manager who has made the run possible. 

Stock rights. In the matter of leasing stock rights 
to the manager, there is some difference of opinion. 
By " stock rights " is meant the leasing of a play 
for a half week, a week, or several weeks to some 
stock company making frequent changes of bill. 
These rights are valuable, and, since it is the run the 
manager has given the piece which makes it of in- 
terest for stock, he holds that a share in these rights 
belongs to him. They therefore only revert to the 
author if the manager fails to give a certain number 
of performances. This number varies according to 
the author's reputation and ability to hold out for 
his demands. So, unless the play has had so few 
performances as to be classed as a downright fail- 
ure, the manager shares in these rights with the 
author, 50 per cent. each. If a play has been with- 
drawn from production as a semi-failure, it may 
still be a valuable stock property. A certain play, 
a dramatization of a popular novel, which failed 
on Broadway was used simultaneously by forty dif- 
ferent stock companies. 

Fifty-fifty is also the amount usual in arranging 
for novelization rights — that is, the turning of a 
successful and popular play into a novel. In other 
words, to sum up, the author, in addition to pro- 
duction right, which is his reason for leasing the 
play at all, leases to the manager moving-picture, 
novelization, and stock rights, under specified con- 



THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 255 

ditions, and preferably for " 50-50 " ; he reserves all 
other rights, the copyright, the publication (as a 
play), and the English and foreign dramatic rights, 
unless he contracts for the month's option previ- 
ously mentioned. 

Author's name. A clause in the contract should 
state that the writer's name is to be announced as 
author on all programs and advertising matter. 

The novice, with a first play, may not be able 
to stand out for all of these clauses. But, knowing 
his rights, he will be able to make legitimate conces- 
sions intelligently. 

Contracts for vaudeville sketches. In vaudeville, 
the arrangements are slightly different. Instead .of 
royalties, the usual custom is a flat price each week 
the " act " plays. The reason is simple. A vaude- 
ville sketch receives from the manager who " books " 
it on any particular circuit a certain sum of money 
each week, varying from $100 to $1,000 and over, 
according to the material and the star. This sum 
is not dependent on the box-office receipts, but is 
the same week after week — when the sketch plays. 
Therefore, the author of the sketch receives a cer- 
tain sum weekly under the same conditions. This 
sum, in an average season, is usually twenty-five dol- 
lars a week, though it may be lower. Unless the 
author has a big reputation, which may add to the 
drawing value of the sketch, it does not often go 
over this figure. In a vaudeville season there are 
frequent " lay-offs " in which neither the company 
nor the author is paid. Sometimes the " act " will 



256 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

play only three days in houses where the bill is 
changed twice a week. The sum received is reduced 
according to the number of performances. 

In signing a vaudeville contract, the same reser- 
vations as to motion-picture and publishing rights 
should be made as in the contract for the dramatic 
stage. There is generally an advance royalty of two 
weeks' payment when the sketch is booked — though 
this may be waived if the author wishes to yield 
the point. A week, or two weeks, is usually allowed 
the manager free of royalty while " breaking the 
act in," which process consists in giving perform- 
ances for the managers and the booking-offices at 
certain theaters before the act is booked for the 
season. Authors of big reputation, however, some- 
times refuse to allow this, and are paid from the 
first performance. As in the case of the long play, 
the sketch must be produced a certain number of 
weeks each year — from ten to twenty — to be held 
by the producer. 

When there are two authors, or collaborators, they 
arrange between themselves just what ratio of the 
royalty shall come to each. I spoke of this in a 
previous chapter when dealing with collaboration. 
Whatever arrangements are made as to the share of 
each, it is quite between themselves, and with it 
the manager has no concern, except to pay the speci- 
fied royalty. If they take out a copyright, it is 
taken in both names, but there is only one copy- 
right. It is advisable to draw up some sort of an 
agreement before collaboration starts. 



THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 257 

Agent's fees. Where a play has been leased 
through an agent, the agent receives a percentage 
from the author's royalties during the run of the 
piece. The standard rate of commission is 10 per 
cent. This includes the collecting of the royalties 
from the manager for the author. Also, an agent 
will collect the royalties at a rate of 5 per cent, in 
cases where he has had no hand in placing the play. 
In Appendix C will be found the actual wording 
of the contract used by one of the reputable New 
York agents. In addition, I will quote No. 5 in the 
" Warnings to Dramatic Authors " printed in the 
Bulletin of the Authors 9 League of America: "It 
is well to be extremely cautious about committing 
your play to the hands of an agent who is not 
only an agent but also a playwright or a produc- 
ing manager, or even interested financially in the 
business of any producing manager, as dramatic 
agents nowadays often are. You are apt to find 
your interests neglected in favor of the author- 
agent's own ventures, and that independent man- 
agers are distrustful of plays submitted them by 
agents who are also producing managers." Also 
No. 6 : " Never sign a contract secured by an agent 
by which that agent becomes third party to the 
agreement." In the matter of stock rights, an agent 
should never be permitted to stipulate that all leas- 
ing of the play to stock companies should be solely 
through his agency. 

Dramatization rights. Where a play has been 
dramatized from a book or story, the author of 



258 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

the story and the playwright share royalties as col- 
laborators, unless the dramatist buys the rights out- 
right. The giving and selling of such rights rests 
entirely with the original author. The percentage 
each receives is again a matter of personal arrange- 
ment, varying according to the scope of the orig- 
inal story, and the reputation of either writer. If 
it is only the germ of an idea, and the dramatist must 
create characters and situations, building a new 
structure, the making of the terms would seem to 
be entirely up to the dramatist. But where the 
story is complete, the division would probably be 
half and half. These distinctions in no way alter 
the size of the royalties ; they merely determine which 
proportion of the royalties each shall receive. There 
are no rules in the matter; it is all adjusted and 
arranged by mutual consent, which in some few cases 
may include the book's publisher. A dramatization 
must be copyrighted separately, since it is a new 
work, and considered distinct from the novel. 

Copyright. You will notice that I have not men- 
tioned copyright as the first necessity of the fin- 
ished play. Many well-known writers do not take 
the trouble, maintaining that public performance es- 
tablishes the authorship and makes it difficult to 
safely steal any portion of the play. The simple 
truth of the matter is that copyright law as it is 
at present does not really protect to any wonderful 
extent, although efforts are constantly being made 
for improvement, and in time we may have a law 
that will be a real safeguard against theft. Says 



THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 259 

Richard Rogers Bowker : " Copyright law is excep- 
tionally confused and confusing, and even the new 
American and British codes are not without such 
defects." Still, there is a law, and it is a deterrent 
in the stealing of plays and ideas, and production 
without consent of the author; authors use it for 
just the protection it gives them, and trust for the 
rest. Many dramatists have their plays printed as 
books, thus putting them under the protection of 
book copyright, which seems stronger than play- 
right. And, as stated in an earlier chapter, it would 
be well if all produced plays were so published for 
the establishment of a permanent literature of the 
theater. But plays printed in pamphlet form for 
the use of actors are not covered by book copy- 
right, according to the laws. It is rather compli- 
cated, the law being somewhat vague as to when a 
play is a book or just a play. The law says that 
the term " book " includes all printed literary works 
(except dramatic compositions) whether published 
as books or pamphlets. In this connection I had 
best refer you to the laws themselves. They will be 
sent you free of charge; it is only necessary to 
address the Register of Copyrights, Copyright Of- 
fice, Library of Congress, Washington, D. C. Do 
not send stamps for return. For further informa- 
tion regarding the laws here and in other countries, 
read Playright and Copyright in All Countries, by 
the English barristers, Colles and Hardy, and pub- 
lished by Macmillan and Company, New York; The 
Law of Copyright, by J. B. Richardson, London: 



260 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

Jordan and Sons ; and, best of all for American 
writers, Copyright: Its History and Its Law, by 
Richard Rogers Bowker, New York: Houghton and 
Mifflin. You may find them in your local public 
library. 

Play-pirates. It is a criminal offense to perform 
a play without permission of the owner of the copy- 
right, which makes it possible at last to prosecute 
play-pirates who put on well-known and successful 
plays in obscure parts of the country under changed 
titles to avoid the paying of royalties to the owner. 
There was a time when this was done to an enormous 
degree and there seemed no way of stopping it. The 
actors were not to blame ; they played the parts 
given them, often ignorant of the original play, espe- 
cially if their experience had been gained far from 
the seat of the earlier productions. It was the ex- 
perience of a young novice some twelve years ago ; 
quite innocently she appeared in two such plays, and 
not having seen them during their season in New 
York, did not know until long afterward what they 
were. Also, on one occasion, a company of which I 
was one, " laying off " in Oklahoma, witnessed a per- 
formance, by a repertoire company, of Gillette's All 
the Comforts of Home, which the play " pirate " had 
dubbed The Man from Kokomo. To-day, owing to 
quite recent and more stringent laws, this is not so 
easy to do, since the punishment, if detected, is 
apt to be heavy. 

For the rest, I shall quote freely from Richard 
Rogers Bowker's book on Copyright, in which you 



THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 261 

will find most exhaustive information on this sub- 
ject. The law states that the sole rights of a play 
belong to the author, just as in a book, and only 
himself can dispose of these rights. The rights in- 
clude those of translation. To prevent infringe- 
ment of the acting rights in 6ther countries, there 
are International Copyright Laws which must be 
looked up. 

In the matter of the translation of a copyright 
work, Mr. Bowker states : " The author of the orig- 
inal work has the right to prevent other transla- 
tions, but the translator has no such rights to pre- 
vent translation by another translator, except as ex- 
clusive right to translate is conveyed or implied to 
him by the author of the original work. A work 
in the public domain, as a non-copyright work, or 
a work on which copyright has expired, may be 
translated by anyone, and the translation copy- 
righted, but such translator would not have the right 
to prevent translation by any other translator." 

In regard to the title, I shall again quote Mr. 
Bowker : " There is no copyright protection for the 
title in itself, but it may be considered an essen- 
tial part of the book. . . . Change of title would 
probably not invalidate the copyright, though it 
would make identification more difficult. ' Copy- 
righted under the title of ' should be written 

on all copies whose titles have been changed. Titles 
are rather to be considered as trademarks which may 
be registered in the United States under the Trade- 
marks Act of 1905-06, and protected by statutory 



262 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

penalties, or may be protected on general princi- 
ples of equity. . . . The use of a title to attract 
purchasers on the supposition that they are get- 
ting another work previously known by that title is 
a fraud punishable at common law." 

It is illegal to put the words " Copyrighted, etc.," 
on a manuscript unless it is true. There is a fine 
of not less than $100 or more than $1,000. The 
copyright lasts twenty-eight years, with the right of 
renewal for another twenty-eight years, if registered 
within one year prior to the expiration of the orig- 
inal copyright. 

A play scenario cannot be copyrighted, since it is 
obviously incomplete. It is only possible to pro- 
tect the completed drama. As yet, it is extremely 
difficult to protect a moving-picture scenario. 

Again I will quote from Mr. Bowker, especially as 
his remarks in regard to the room for improvement 
in the laws coincide with theatrical experience: 
" Dramatic copyright, in the wide sense, covers copy- 
right in the specific sense, and playright, as to which 
latter common laws especially need statutory pro- 
tection. ... It might be alleged that dramatic com- 
positions in book-form, or produced as books from 
type . . . should be classified as books and sub- 
jected to the manufacturing provisions; but this is 
distinctly not the letter of the law. . . . Copyright 
in the specific sense is, however, of less importance 
to the dramatic author than playright or perform- 
ing right, which is also covered and protected spe- 
cifically by the code of 1909, though in less accu- 



THE COMMERCIAL ASPECT 263 

rate, definite, and satisfactory provisions, involving 
in some respects serious questions." 

In sending manuscripts to Washington to be copy- 
righted, the following is the law regarding postage 
according to the United States Copyright Code of 
1909: "Section 14; That the, postmaster to whom 
are delivered the articles deposited . . . shall, if re- 
quested, give a receipt therefor and shall mail them 
to their destination without cost to the copyright 
claimant." This receipt holds good if copies are 
lost in the mails. 

Postage must be prepaid on the signed applica- 
tion containing copyright fee, as the law does not 
provide for free transmission as in the case of de- 
posited copies. The application, with remittance, 
and the deposit copies should be sent separately and 
at the same time. 

For fuller information along these lines, refer to 
the laws, and the quoted works. 



CHAPTER XXIV 
AND FINALLY 

ACCIDENTAL ACCOMPLISHMENT PRACTICAL ADVICE 

THE OBVIOUS AND FAMILIAR LEARN BY DOING 

SERIOUSNESS OF THE WORK TRYING AND FAIL- 
ING WHAT IS A GOOD PLAY? 

Accidental accomplishment. It has been said to 
me since starting on this work : " Many of the things 
you say must not be done, can be, if they are done 
cleverly." I would like to emblazon that " if ' ; ; I 
have underscored it often, emphasized it frequently. 
For fear of a repetition of the same criticism, I say 
it again: you can do almost anything if you do it 
cleverly. But an accidental doing well of the thing 
that ought not to be done is not what is meant by 
doing it cleverly. 

A story is told of Apelles, the famous Roman 
artist of antiquity, concerning his repeated efforts to 
achieve a certain effect — a war-horse, foaming and 
frothing at the mouth. Losing his temper at last 
in disgust at his continued failures, he picked up 
the sponge he had used to wipe his brushes, and 
hurled it blindly at the painting. By chance it 
landed on the horse's mouth. The blend of colors 
on the sponge, the blur caused by its striking the 
wet paint, produced just the effect for which he had 

264 



AND FINALLY 265 

been fruitlessly striving. It is a good story; but as 
a child I remember feeling very distinctly that the 
artist did not deserve all the honor that particular 
painting brought him. It was accident, not skill. 
Expert riflemen say that a marksman who cannot 
" call his shot " (i.e., tell its destined mark on the 
target) at the instant he pulls the trigger is not a 
good " shot," even though that bullet finds the bull's- 
eye. 

Practical advice. With experience and the guid- 
ing power of that inner sense, the dramatic instinct, 
it is quite possible to achieve distinct effects and 
happy results unconsciously. But that is not doing 
" the thing that should not be done." It is a very 
clear case of doing just the right thing, because a 
feeling for the theater is like a sixth sense. To win 
to a feeling that can be trusted is only possible after 
the tedious drudgery of study and practice. There- 
fore, in play-writing, as in everything else, if you do 
the things you should not do, be sure } r ou do them 
so cleverly as to disguise the fact of your trans- 
gression. 

I have left to others the theoretical side of all 
this work. Many excellent books are written on the 
subject, of value not only to the playwright, but to 
the playgoer. My aim has been to help the writer 
in the practical work of putting together his own 
play. Mr. Archer speaks of certain things being so 
obvious as to be unnecessary. Yet it is amazing 
how many of the things which have become obvious 
and trite to us of the theater are not at all either 



266 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

one or the other to the novice. Every mention of 
the seeming obvious, every explanation of the fa- 
miliar, has been called forth directly by actual ques- 
tions and mistakes of would-be writers. 

The conclusion arrived at here, as in almost every 
book on the subject, is as A. B. Walkley states: 
" There is no orthodox method of play-invention. 
It all depends on the kind of play — and the kind of 
playwright." 

Learn by doing. But all are agreed that the 
theater must be studied, and certain general rules 
observed and absorbed before the work of writing 
begins. Of course, you can learn by doing, however 
immature, even impossible, your early efforts are. 
That is, you can learn, if you permit yourself to 
realize that these first efforts are lessons rather than 
finished products for the theater. If your idea is 
good, if you have a message, it will be written — 
at last — in proper form. The dramatist is one who 
has learned how to use the form he has chosen in 
such a way as to make dramatic presentation pos- 
sible. No book, however well written, however com- 
prehensive, can do more than point the way. It may 
be incidentally remarked, in answer to writers who 
resent the use of many " don'ts " in a book of this 
kind, that any sign-post which does not point out 
pitfalls and danger-spots is not much of a sign- 
post, however obvious the pitfalls may seem after 
our attention has been drawn to them. 

One has only to read a very few of the effusions, 
the letters, the questions, of would-be writers to 



AND FINALLY 267 

realize how little is known by the laity of the great 
art of play-writing. Like any art which is worth 
mastering, it has to be studied, inside and out. See- 
ing plays will not show you how to write them, any 
more than looking at pictures will teach you how 
to paint. Both are necessary helps on the way. 

Seriousness of the work. It is work to be taken 
seriously and in all sincerity. The aspirant earnestly 
desirous of doing something worth while will neglect 
nothing which will bring that idea to pass. And 
the thing not worth while is hardly worth the doing. 
But the form into which you put your idea is the 
form which the public will judge. Ignore, as dan- 
gerous half truths, the careless statements of sev- 
eral successful playwrights that technique is a side- 
issue. You are a novice; such statements are not 
for you. 

Trying and failing. Remember this, too, so you 
need not fear to try and fail : few, if any, first plays 
succeed. Sometimes we hear of one, but we have 
no assurance that we may not be witnessing the third 
or fourth re-writing of the play. It can still be 
called the author's first, since the re-written version 
has resulted from his first transcript. But for a 
first play to be written and produced without re- 
writing of any kind is most unlikely, unusual, well- 
nigh impossible. As someone has said : " Plays are 
not written ; they are re-written." From notes which 
have come to us, it is evident that Ibsen in many 
cases re-wrote his material many times. Sardou is 
said to have usually re-written his dialogue alone 



268 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

three or four times after he had copied out his play 
for the fourth time! Two versions of Brieux's Ma- 
ternity are published, the second being a later, and 
preferred, version. Therefore, if you write your 
first play with the thought that you are going 
to be perfectly willing to re-write it as often as 
necessary, you will save yourself much disappoint- 
ment. Also, your chances of success are just that 
much the greater. Life is at your elbow ; paper and 
pencil in front of you ; the theater within reach. Will 
you accept the challenge? If so, here's success to 
you, and a new play for the stage ! 

What is a good play? As to what constitutes a 
good play? Who knows? One writer declares that 
any play that has successfully entertained you for 
an evening comes under this heading. Several plays 
in a season, which may come under the scathing criti- 
cism of one who knows, will succeed. Their authors 
belong to that happy class who have achieved the 
ability to do the wrong thing cleverly. Walter 
Pritchard Eaton makes another distinction between 
the good and the bad play, which may explain as 
well as any other : the good is caused by sincerity 
on the part of the writer, the bad by insincerity. 
And the success of any given play can only be judged 
by the effect it produces. 



APPENDIX A 

ANALYSIS OF " THE NIGGER " 

As a concrete example of the working out of advice 
given in previous chapters you will find the follow- 
ing analyses helpful. I have reduced this play to 
scenario form, giving the dramatist's working out of 
his theme through the various scenes and situations. 
There has been no effort to select the " best " play 
for the purpose. The reasons for the use of this 
particular drama are first of all that it is an excel- 
lent example of an entirely American play dealing 
with an exclusively American problem. Further, 
it fulfills all the desiderata of a play — an interesting 
story, thrill, suspense, action, and most of all that 
condition of writing which demands that the drama 
must not only be a picture of life but a judgment 
on it. In The Nigger, Mr. Sheldon has not only 
shown us the conditions as they exist to-day, but 
gives us the reasons why such conditions confront 
the American public at this time. He not only 
presents these conditions and their reasons, but gives, 
so far as one man can, one of the solutions. One 
other reason for the use of this play as an example 
lies in the fact that it is published. The best way, 
therefore, to get full benefit out of both analyses is 
to study them with the plays beside you. 



270 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

Many of the scenes contain only a few lines of dia- 
logue; in one or two instances they contain none, 
consisting only of the transition from one mood to 
another in the exit and entrance of characters. So 
do not think, because I have divided Act One into 
twenty-three scenes, that all of these scenes are of 
equal length and importance. As we go along, I will 
try to make you see why the scenes were so written 
and the author's method of getting necessary infor- 
mation to his audience. 

In Appendix B we find an example of more subtle 
development. Pinero's play, a perfect form of the 
" psychological drama," is its own excuse for use in 
this connection. 



" THE NIGGER " * 

An American Play in Three Acts 

By Edward Sheldon 

Produced at the New Theatre, New York City, De- 
cember 4, 1909. 

Act 1 — June 3 — " Morrow's Rest." Evening. 

Act 2 — February 23 — The Governor's Study in his City 

Home. 10 a.m. 
Act 3 — February 26 — The Governor's Private Office in 
the Capitol. Evening. 
Place: The South. 
Time: Now. 
* Published by Macmillan & Co., New York. 



APPENDIX A 271 

CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Philip Morrow, of "Morrow's Rest." Sheriff; later 

Governor. [Spoken of as " Phil " throughout 

scenario.] 
Clifton Noyes. President, Nqyes' Distillery Works. 

[Spoken of as Noyes.] 
Jinny. Morrow's quadroon " mammy." 
Georgiana Byrd. Phil's fiancee. [Spoken of as 

Georgie.] 
Senator Thomas R. Long. " The White Nigger." 
Joe White. An octoroon. 
Jake Willis. 

Mrs. Byrd, Georgie's mother. 
Purdy. Deputy-Sheriff. 

Barrington, the Governor's private secretary. 
Simms. Negro butler. 
Chief-of-Police Tilton. 
Colonel Knapp — 5th Militia. 
Doorkeeper. 

Rioters, soldiers, etc. 

[Note: On the play program these characters are 
given in the order of their first appearance. I have put 
them as nearly as possible in the order of their dramatic 
importance.] 

ACT ONE 

Scene 1 — Simms, the butler, and Jinny. This scene is 
short. In it the important fact given to the audi- 
ence is that the aged Jinny has a good-for-nothing 
grandson, and that he is likely to get into trouble. 
[This plants Joe's identity and character.] 

Scene 2 — Enter Georgie and Noyes. Simms exits, fol- 
lowed presently by Jinny. The next important fact 



272 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

conveyed by the dialogue is that Jinny has been in 
Morrow's family since the days of Phil's grand- 
father. We learn that Noyes is Phil's cousin. 
Their grandfathers had quarreled about a mulatto 
woman in the '40's. [This fact is the most impor- 
tant " exposition " so far, as on this dead mulatto 
slave hangs the later development. Note how this 
fact is planted here and its frequent recurrence in 
later dialogue.] Noyes has been searching in Mor- 
row's attic for some family papers which will en- 
able him to join the Sons of the Revolution. His 
manner and one or two sentences convey to the 
audience that he has found something else. [Here 
is an example of one way of conveying a dramatic 
undercurrent. He tells Georgie nothing, and does 
not arouse her suspicions. The information is subtly 
carried solely to the audience.] Georgie mentions 
Mamie Willis. [This is to give us a living picture 
of a girl who never appears in the play, but who 
plays a tragic part in later developments of the 
act.] Noyes proposes to Georgie, and is refused. 
In spite of his good blood, he is not quite a gentle- 
man. He has grown rich on the liquor traffic, has 
worked since he was ten, with no income but his 
father's debts. He discovers that Georgie is in 
love with Phil. He tells her that he has come to 
ask Phil to run for Governor of the state, because 
he is strongly anti-negro. Georgie exits into the 
house to call Phil. [In this long scene in which is 
conveyed so much information of use to the audi- 
ence in its appreciation of what follows, there is 
not one word of monologue or aside. The informa- 
tion is conveyed by the direct dialogue, and the 
facial expressions and actions of the players.] 



APPENDIX A 273 

Scene 3 — Noyes, alone a second, shows by his manner 
that he is thinking deeply about something. We 
understand that this has to do with what he found 
in the attic. [Not a word spoken.] 

Scene 4 — Enter Phil. Georgie has sent him out to talk 
to Noyes. Noyes tells him ^hat Georgie has refused 
him, and wonders if Phil has told her about his 
(Noyes') affair with a mulatto girl. Phil has not, 
and adds : " No white woman would touch you with 
a ten-yard pole." [The object of this is to give us 
Phil's attitude on the question.] A second refer- 
en6e is made to the gossip concerning the quarrel 
between their grandfathers, to which the remark 
about Noyes' affair led easily. Noyes speaks of the 
old letter he found in the attic. [Again we get a 
hint of the dramatic undercurrent and possible trou- 
ble for Phil. There is an inkling of suspicion as to 
the purity of Phil's blood in the references to this 
ancient quarrel and this new-found letter. The 
story is being planted.] Phil changes the subject, 
without any suspicion of what is in Noyes' mind. 
Noyes tells him of the political offer. Senator Long 
is mentioned as his opponent, a friend to the down- 
trodden negro, and opposed to liquor. [This is also 
exposition, since Long plays an important part in 
Phil's development. Also the audience receives an 
impression of local prejudice against negro fran- 
chise.] Noyes owns a newspaper in addition to his 
liquor interests. [Another important fact planted.] 
Phil consents to run, but refuses to pledge 
anything. He happens not to approve of Prohibi- 
tion, so is willing to oppose Long. 

Scene 5 — Enter Georgie. She congratulates Phil on 
his political opportunities. Exit Noyes. 



274 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

♦ 

Scene 6 — In this scene we learn through the dialogue 
that Georgie and Phil were childish sweethearts. A 
little pleasant reminiscence. He proposes and is 
accepted. 

Scene 7 — The love-scene is interrupted by the noise of 
horse's hoofs. Wondering what it can be, Georgie 
exits into the house. Enter Purdy, the deputy- 
sheriff. 

[These preceding scenes have been chiefly expo- 
sition. With this necessary knowledge in our minds, 
the drama now moves rapidly."] 

Scene 8 — Purdy announces a case of rape — the girl is 
Mamie Willis. [This is why Georgie mentioned 
Mamie Willis earlier, so we might share some of 
the horror one always feels when the victim of any 
disaster is someone we know.] Phil is determined 
as sheriff to stop any lynching. The guilty negro 
is Joe White. [Now we know why we heard so 
much of him in the first scene.] 

Scene 9 — Enter Noyes from house, announcing a tele- 
phone call from the jail. [This scene is but two 
lines.] 

Scene 10 — Enter Mrs. Byrd, followed by Georgie. 
She is very autocratic, a grand dame of the old 
South, and insists that the negro ought to be 
lynched, and that Phil must make no effort to stop 
the lynching. Noyes also argues with him. If Phil 
helps the negro, he may lose the vote of the con- 
vention which is strongly anti-negro. Phil tells 
Georgie to ask Simms to send for Jinny. Georgie 
exits into house. Phil sends Purdy to see that the 
jail cells are made secure. Purdy exits. Phil 
takes Mrs. Byrd back to the house. Both exit. 
[This scene is played rapidly, as Phil makes 



APPENDIX A 275 

his plans and issues orders in spite of opposi- 
tion.] 

Scene 11— Noyes alone, lights a cigar. Enter Jinny, 
terrified. Joe is her grandson and she fears for 
him. He had been drinking, and now has come 
home to her to hide. She is sure Phil will help 
him. [The suspense of this scene is heightened by 
the first sounds of the bloodhounds in the distance.] 

Scene 12 — Phil enters. Jinny tells him Joe is hiding 
in the shrubbery. 

Scene 13 — Enter Joe, cringing, panic-stricken. Phil 
loathes him and the thing he has done, but, as an 
officer of the law, will protect him from the mob. 
Jinny pleads with Phil to hide him in the house. 
Phil seems disposed to yield, but Noyes protests 
that such an act will ruin his political career. Phil 
argues that if Joe goes to the flimsy jail the mob 
will surely get him there. 

Scene 14 — Georgie enters. Her mother is getting 
nervous. Phil sends her in. She catches a glimpse 
of Joe and with a shudder returns to the house. 

Scene 15 — Noyes reminds Phil that Joe will be in the 
same house with Georgie if Phil elects to save him 
that way. [This is the reason Georgie was brought 
on at this stage of the dialogue. A visual reminder 
of her presence in the house is better than a mere 
mention of her. You will note that, while there is 
this dramatic reason for her interruption, the author 
has given her a natural reason for entrance, in her 
mother's nervousness, and has not allowed her to 
simply walk on and off.] Phil decides that it will 
be best to get the wardens and make a break for 
the jail. Noyes hears the mob getting closer. 
[The dramatic suspense of these scenes is height- 



276 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

ened by the sounds from without, our knowledge 
that a mob with hounds is searching for the negro, 
who is still on the stage.~\ Noyes exits quickly to 
telephone to the jail. 

Scene 16 — Joe grovels behind Phil. Jinny moans in 
terror. Phil takes out his revolver and waits. 
Noise grows louder. The mob does not enter, but 
the light of torches is seen and we hear the move- 
ment and voices. Jake Willis enters. 

Scene 17 — As the father of the victim, he demands Joe. 
Half crazed with grief, he is yet quiet and deter- 
mined. The girl has just died. Phil sympathizes 
deeply, but reminds Jake of his own frequent state- 
ments about the crime of lynching. Phil states that 
the law must take its course, and he pledges his 
honor to the outraged father that the trial will be 
quick and justice done. The mob without fre- 
quently interrupts by calls to Jake. 

Scene 18 — Enter Noyes and Purdy, with two jail offi- 
cers. Phil orders Joe handcuffed. Wardens drag 
him to his feet and attach handcuffs. 

Scene 19 — Jake turns to the place where the mob is 
concealed behind the shrubbery and tells the men 
that the Sheriff will not give up the negro and that 
the wardens are going to take him to the jail. He 
directs the mob to take up certain positions sur- 
rounding the house and grounds. Phil angrily re- 
minds him that his men are fully armed and will 
defend themselves. Jake exits. The mob is heard 
departing. 

Scene 20 — Phil gives hurried instructions to the men 
in charge of Joe. Joe flings himself at Jinny's feet, 
begging her to help him. The wardens pull him 
up and drag him away. 



APPENDIX A 277 

Scene 21 — Phil starts to follow. Jinny kneels to him, 
frantically begging him to keep Joe in the house. 
She adds in her extremity: " You must keep him 

here because he is your " and stops in terror 

at what she was about to say. Noyes puts his hand 
suddenly on. her shoulder. [Here is further con- 
firmation of our impression that something is wrong 
•with Phil's ancestry. We suspect that Noyes knows 
something. His touching Jinny at this point tells 
he knows what she would say and wants to stop 
her. This is an example of the number of times 
important information is repeated, and not always 
by the use of lines.'] Jinny releases Phil, whose 
knees she has been clutching. He rushes past her, 
but Noyes grapples with him and stops him. Enter 
Georgie. 

Scene 22 — As it is dusk she does not fully take in the 
situation, but tells Noyes that a telephone message 
says there is a telegram for him. Noyes, without 
releasing Phil, asks her if she will take it for 
him. She re-enters the house. [In addition 
to the ordinary reasons for Georgie's entrance 
at these points is the dramatic undercurrent 
which conveys a reminder of her presence in Phil's 
life.] 

Scene 23 — Noyes still holds Phil, arguing with him. 
Georgie enters, announcing that the message states 
that Morrow is likely to be nominated for Governor 
by a large majority. A fearful scream is heard 
at a distance. Jinny crumples up on the ground. 
Noyes releases Phil. Georgie starts violently and 
covers her ears, then comes slowly to Phil. He 
wishes now he had not allowed himself to be per- 
suaded and had kept Joe there. He turns his head 



278 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

away from her as if ashamed of his official fail- 
ure. Noyes stands apart, watching them. 
Curtain 



ACT TWO 

Governor Morrow's study in his city home, 10 a.m. 
Nine months later. 

Scene 1 — Curtain rises on an empty room. Outside the 
windows can be heard the noises of an angry mob. 
There is the sound of an occasional gun-shot. A 
small party of drunken rioters can be plainly heard, 
laughing, singing, firing off revolvers. A man's 
voice shouts, asking where " all the niggers are." 

Scene 2 — Simms enters showing on Mrs. Byrd and 
Georgie. They are much agitated. The drunken 
rioters move on. We learn that the Governor 
(Phil) has been out since the rioters started the day 
before. Simms exits. Georgie states that it is 
the Mayor who is so unpopular, because he put 
negroes on the police force. 

Scene 3 — Enter Barrington, the secretary. He is a 
lively young man of twenty-five. He greets the 
ladies gaily. Mrs. Byrd tells him she and Georgie 
have packed up a few things and have come to the 
Governor's, feeling themselves safer there. [It is 
essential that all the important characters should 
be assembled in one place for the purposes of 
drama. A good excuse is therefore necessary to 
bring Georgie to the Governor's home. It does not 
just f happen."] Barrington says the militia has 
been sent for. The riots are anti-negro, and the 
saloons have added to the trouble by selling liquor 
freely. Most of the rioters are drunk. A news- 



APPENDIX A 279 

paper is calling an " extra." " Niggahs killing the 
whites ! " Mrs. Byrd is terrified. Barrington tells 
her it is the whites who are rioting, and this is only 
Mr. Noyes' paper, which has been adding to the 
trouble by running off extras every half hour, keep- 
ing popular feeling at a high tension. Telephone 
rings. Barrington answers; we gather that there 
is trouble with the rioters at the railroad. Drunken 
whites are attacking the blacks everywhere. Mrs. 
Byrd laments that the wedding will have to be 
postponed. [The mention of Georgie' s and Phil's 
engagement at this point has a dramatic purpose.] 

Scene 3— Jinny enters, bringing in coffee. [Phil's en- 
gagement to Georgie and the entrance of this old 
woman now remind us of the shadow in the back- 
ground.] Jinny appears lifeless. She serves the 
coffee. More noise of rioters without. A distant 
door is heard to slam. Barrington says it is Phil. 

Scene 4 — Enter Phil. All greet him. He is tired but 
cheerful. Georgie is proud of the way he has han- 
dled the situation. Phil urges the ladies to go and 
rest, as they have had a bad night. Jinny goes with 
them to help Mrs. Byrd. 

Scene 5 — Phil rings for Simms and tells him he is ex- 
pecting the Chief of Police. Simms exits. 

Scene 6 — Phil tells Barrington he is going to weed 
out every negro on the police force. Barrington 
tells him of the telephone message. Another " ex- 
tra " is heard: "White woman shot by a negro." 
Phil tells Barrington to go down and stop the 
newsboy. Barrington exits — the newsboy's voice 
suddenly ceases. 

Scene 7— Phil goes to the telephone. Rings up the 
editor of the newspaper. He reminds him that he 



280 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

has already ordered these inflammatory extras 
stopped. He learns that Noyes' orders were to 
continue. Phil tells him, if he brings out another 
edition inside of twenty-four hours, he will put the 
whole staff under arrest. Hangs up the receiver. 
[We see here how the situation is forcing Phil and 
Noyes into opposite camps.] Enter Barrington. 

Scene 8 — Barrington says the boy had already sold 
one hundred copies, but he's fixed him — he won't 
sell any more. Phil dictates a telegram to the 
Attorney-General, asking that two regiments of in- 
fantry be held as reserves. He asks Barrington to 
go personally to Senator Long's house and ask him 
to see him as soon as possible. Barrington is sur- 
prised. Long is Prohibition and the Governor has 
intended to veto his Bill. Simms enters, announc- 
ing the Chief of Police. Barrington and Simms 
exit. [The dramatic value of showing us Phil's 
change of position toward Long and toward Noyes* 
paper which is stirring up anti-negro feeling is that, 
coming before the later revelations, it tells us that 
Phil's attitude has already become the broadly hu- 
man one and is not caused by expediency. This 
strengthens our appreciation of his character.] 

Scene 9 — Enter Tilton, chief of police. Phil tells him 
all the negro police must go, as a scene he has just 
witnessed at the City Hall has convinced him it 
is necessary. Tilton says many are so light-colored 

that Phil interrupts him, saying that either a 

man is a nigger or he is not. [The drama conveyed 
in this statement is its reminder of the shadow we 
already suspect.] Tilton agrees with him. Simms 
enters, announcing that Mr. Noyes is waiting, and 
exits. Phil tells Tilton to use every man possible 



APPENDIX A 281 

to keep the drinking bars closed. Tilton says he 
sent orders yesterday. Phil says they have not 
been obeyed. Tilton promises to do his best. En- 
ter Noyes. 
Scene 10 — He greets Tilton, who exits. Phil tells 
Noyes that he has repeated his orders to close every 
bar in the city. Noyes tells him that he'll give 
a bad impression; people will think he has become 
a Prohibitionist. Phil does' not care; the trouble 
never would have started if the men had not been 
drunk. Noyes agrees it's all right temporarily. 
Phil says it's for good. He reminds Noyes that 
the whites brought the negroes to this country 
against their will and are responsible for them. 
They are only children, and pouring liquor down 
their throats is not helping them. [We remember 
that Joe was drunk when he committed the crime 
of Act 1.] Phil announces that the state is going 
" dry." Noyes will not believe him, has been sure 
he would veto Long's Bill. Phil is going to let it 
pass. Noyes pleads: he will lose everything. Phil 
is sorry, but cannot help it. Noyes reminds him 
that this was why he was elected — because he was 
anti-negro and anti-Prohibition. Phil tells him that 
he has refused to make any promises. Noyes 
threatens to force him. Phil tells him to go ahead, 
the Bill will pass. [Here we reach the dramatic 
climax toward which all this has been tending. 
The dramatist has created a situation in which the 
hero forces his enemy into a corner — a corner 
which means his (Noyes') actual livelihood, which 
the hero will sacrifice for the sake of a principle.'] 
Furious, Noyes takes out a wallet, extracting from 
it a sheet of paper. He hands it to Phil, who 



282 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

takes it. Noyes remarks while Phil is reading 
it that Belle was Jinny's sister. [This gives us a 
clue to the contents. This whole episode is an ex- 
ample of the way an important crisis is held off 
until the proper moment in the drama. Consider 
if Noyes had displayed this letter on the occa- 
sion of Georgie*s acceptance of Phil and refusal 
of himself. That might have been a moment of 
temptation to him. But the play would have 
ended there. Instead, he does something entirely 
consistent with his character and holds it out as 
a weapon to use should the Governor prove unman- 
ageable.] Phil is not conscious of any reference to 
himself and asks Noyes where he got it. Noyes 
tells him ; this is a copy. Phil has no understanding 
of what Noyes is driving at. Noyes tells him that 
the baby referred to is Phil's father. Phil is only 
amused and laughs at the impossibility. Noyes 
argues. Phil smilingly asks him if he really be- 
lieves that Phil's grandmother was a negress, and is 
frankly surprised to find that Noyes does. Then he 
grows angry, but not at all alarmed. Noyes asks 
that Jinny be called. Phil consents, so as to have 
the matter settled. He rings for Simms, and sends 
for Jinny. Phil doubts that Noyes ever really 
did find the original of such a letter. Jinny 
enters. 
Scene 11 — They question her, then Noyes traps her, by 
telling her of what she started to say about Joe 
in Act One. Phil reads the letter aloud, and Jinny 
breaks down at these lines from her long-dead sis- 
ter. Phil learns the truth: he is an octoroon. 
Not showing his feelings, he gently sends Jinny 
from the room. 






APPENDIX A 283 

Scene 12 — Phil asks to see the original of the letter. 
Noyes takes it out; a faded rose falls from the 
letter. Phil picks it up — it is a white rose — he is 
reminded of Georgie. He also remembers that 
his grandfather died fighting gloriously in a bat- 
tle of the Mexican War, and had evidently kept 
the old letter because he had loved its writer. His 
grandfather's wife had a baby which had died and 
the new-born child of the ' mulatto-girl had been 
substituted for it and she herself sold " down the 
river." The letter was her heart-broken farewell 
to his grandfather. Noyes tries to return to the 
matter of the Long Bill and its veto, and hints 
that perhaps Phil has changed his mind. Phil has 
not. Noyes threatens to tell the truth. Noyes 
is the real heir to the Morrow estates; he will give 
up his rights if Phil will veto the Bill. They argue. 
Phil definitely refuses. Barrington enters with 
a telegram. [Again we have an example of the 
crisis held off. Barrington's interruption stops the 
discussion and postpones Noyes* final action, which 
would force Phil's hand at once.~\ 

Scene 13 — The telegram is a wire from the Colonel of 
the militia regiment. They will arrive at eleven. 
Drunken rioters are heard outside. Barrington 
goes to the window. Noyes exits. [We are re- 
minded by the noise of rioting that the duties of 
the Governor must take precedence of the troubles 
of the man. He can do nothing until this present 
situation is settled. Had the dramatist allowed 
Noyes to force his hand at this crisis, the audience 
would have been compelled to witness a confused 
political situation. The political situation is not 
the main theme, but only the background against 



284 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

which the hero's problem and that of his race is 
worked out.'] 

Scene 14 — The mob outside stops to cheer the Gov- 
ernor. Georgie enters. [Note how her entrances 
are usually at a dramatic crisis to point the diffi- 
culty of Phil's position as a negro.] Barrington 
says that Long will call at seven. He exits to go 
to the train to meet the Colonel and his regiment. 

Scene 15 — Georgie is surprised at Phil's expecting 
Long. She reminds him that it will be used against 
him politically. Phil tells her he is going to pass 
the Long Bill. Georgie is shocked: Long receives 
negroes, he calls on them, treats them as he treats 
any white man. They will call him what they call 
Long, the " White Nigger." [Note the dramatic 
effectiveness at this point of the use of Long's nick- 
name.] Phil says he has something to tell her. She 
must break their engagement. She pleads to know 
his reasons, since he still loves her. Phil tells 
her of his mulatto grandmother. She is horrified, 
and instinctively recoils from him. [This shrinking 
from her lover is why earlier in the play at various 
times and even in the scene preceding we heard 
expressions from her of the feeling toward the 
negroes: the inability to see them in any capacity 
but as servants. Without our knowledge of this 
inbred feeling, her shrinking from Phil would lose 
our sympathy. With it, we understand her point 
of view and the inevitable shock of what to her is 
terrible news.] He pleads that he is the same 
man he was. He takes her in his arms. She tears 
herself away, crying hysterically, shrinking in dis- 
gust. Angrily, he tells her that his grandmother, 
a negro slave-girl, knew more of love than she did. 



APPENDIX A 285 

He argues and pleads his love, beside himself with 
the shock of the way she has taken his news. A 
knock at the door interrupts. Barrington enters. 
Scene 16 — Georgie slips out. [This interruption was 
necessary to later developments, since the unhappy 
girl needs time to face her trouble. The scene con- 
tinued might make her say and do things that would 
prevent the present working out of the play.] Bar- 
rington announces the soldiers. Enter Colonel 
Knapp and two other officers. Phil recovers him- 
self. Barrington introduces Colonel Knapp. As 
he and Phil shake hands and exchange greetings, 
the Curtain falls. [You see, the curtain does not 
fall on Georgie's exit. We must again be reminded 
of the Governor's position in the community and the 
crisis he is facing.] 

ACT THREE 

The Governor's office in the Capitol. Three days 
later. 

Scene 1 — Phil is opening his mail, Barrington wait- 
ing to take down the replies. One is an invitation 
to speak at a dedication of a negro college. Phil 
is not sure he approves. Barrington reminds him 
he once was sure he did not. Phil asks him to file 
the letter until Monday; he will think it over. We 
learn the riots are over, the troops leaving that day. 
Phil asks for Senator Longs Bill, and tells Bar- 
rington to bring Long in at once on his arrival. 
His last instruction is to give Barrington a list of 
six of the most prominent negroes in the city, 
asking them to meet him and Senator Long and 



286 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

Speaker Evans next day. Barrington is surprised. 
Senator Long is announced. Barrington exits. 

Scene 2 — Phil alone, shows by his manner his despair 
and fatigue. Senator Long enters. 

Scene 3 — We learn from the dialogue that Phil and 
Long have already had one long talk. Phil is look- 
ing at the negro question from a different light. 
Long says : " You can't set free a race of slaves 
just by knocking off their chains." He believes in 
education, in helping them to help themselves. He 
adds that bringing the negro here was bad, but 
God lets men turn the bad into good, and that 
the United States would be a better nation for 
having to grapple with the negro problem. It is 
not right to punish the negro for conditions the 
white man has brought on him. Long convinces 
Phil of this new point of view. We gather that 
Phil has made up his mind to something, which 
by his manner concerns his own position. Long 
asks him to speak to the troops on their way to 
the station. Phil consents. Long exits. 

Scene 4 — Phil rings to have Mr. Noyes brought in — 
he has been waiting. Enter Noyes. 

Scene 5 — Noyes has said he'd come again on Friday 
to find out what Phil means to do about the Long 
Prohibition Bill. He has been drinking. Phil has 
not changed his mind; he has not yet signed the 
Bill, but will have done so by four o'clock. Noyes 
pleads with him that the Bill will ruin him. Phil 
is sorry. Noyes reminds him that the Morrow es- 
tates are really his, but Phil can make it up to him 
by vetoing the Bill. [This seems like repetition, 
but it is natural under the circumstances, also dra- 
matic, since it serves to drive home the conditions 



APPENDIX A 287 

prevailing between the two men. Also, the scene is 
played in a different mood.] Noyes finally threat- 
ens that if Phil does not veto the Bill while he is 
there, he will go direct to the office of his news- 
paper and give out the full story: who and what 
Phil is. As he threatens, Phil quickly seats him- 
self, draws a document toward him, and writes 
a few words. [We remember that earlier in the 
Act he had asked Barrington to bring him the Bill.] 
As Noyes finishes, Phil tells him the Bill is now 
a law, and orders him to " get out ! " Noyes tries 
to snatch the Bill from him. Phil rings the bell. 
Enter Doorkeeper. Phil hands him the document 
to be given to Mr. Barrington to put in the safe, 
and then to come to him. Doorkeeper exits, with 
the Bill. Noyes laughs at Phil: even if he has 
ruined his business, Noyes will be rich on Phil's 
inheritance. He calls Phil a mulatto — Phil starts 
for him as Barrington enters. 

Scene 6 — Barrington says the Bill is in the safe. Phil 
hesitates. Then Barrington says Miss Byrd is 
waiting. Phil will see her. [Again the dramatic 
value of the woman's entrance at a crucial moment. 
Being called a mulatto has infuriated the white man 
in Phil and he almost seems to intend to recall the 
Bill. Georgie's arrival brings bach to him the fact 
that he cannot marry a white woman.] Noyes exits 
to go to the paper, asking impudently about the 
wedding as he goes out. 

Scene 7 — Phil has remained unmoved. He asks 
Barrington to send Miss Byrd in. Barrington 
exits. 

Scene 8 — Phil alone a moment, tense, nervous. [There 
are no lines, no monologue at these points. Only 



288 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

the manner, the movements of the character alone 
on the stage. ] Enter Georgie. 

Scene 9 — She has not yet told her mother of their 
broken engagement. He says she must. She re- 
fuses to break the engagement. She loves him — 
nothing will come between them. She asks for- 
giveness for her manner when he first told her. 
He resists the impulse to take her in his arms, 
and asks her to sit so they may talk. He tells 
her that people will know he is a negro; Noyes 
knows. Phil will make the announcement himself 
when he speaks to the crowds with the soldiers. 
She tells him it will end his career. He knows it 
and will resign at once. She loves him and still 
insists on marrying him. She pleads with him not 
to give her up. He breaks down, but pulls himself 
together. Long has shown him a way to use his 
life — he repeats Long's doctrines about using the 
bad and turning it into good. He realizes her lot 
is hardest because he has a work to do; but she 
can help by being brave. We get the impression 
that his plans include the working out of some way 
for the solution and betterment of the negro prob- 
lem, though he only touches on it. The lovers say 
good-by. Barrington enters. 

Scene 10 — He announces the troops. Colonel Knapp 
is outside. Phil asks him to invite the officers in. 
Barrington goes to the door and calls them. Enter 
Mrs. Byrd, Colonel Knapp, and other officers and 
legislators, including Senator Long, and some re- 
porters. They exchange greetings,, 

Scene 11 — The crowd is noisy outside. The troops 
are heard arriving. Colonel Knapp looks out. Calls 
Phil to the balcony to speak to them. Phil, re- 



APPENDIX A 289 

raembering what he is to do, turns to Georgie 
and asks her if she feels like remaining. She says 
she is standing back of him every minute, and will 
remain. She clasps her hands against her breast, 
as he steps out on to the balcony. As he raises 
his hand to stop the cheering the Curtain falls. 



There has been some discussion as to whether this 
unfinished ending is correct; that in view of the en- 
thusiastic cheering he may get no opportunity to 
make his announcement. But it is safe to say that 
with Noyes already at the newspaper office prepar- 
ing a statement for the press, Phil will make this 
occasion serve his purpose. As to whether the play 
should have been continued until the announcement 
was made, and the audience permitted to hear it and 
note its effect on the people in the room with him, 
there may be a legitimate difference of opinion. 
This may be a scene a faire, a scene we have a right 
to expect; it may be a scene which we can better 
imagine for ourselves, since its presentation would 
only prolong the agony and bring us to no other 
solution in the end. The play itself as it stands 
presents many examples of things the book has tried 
to explain. If you have read the analysis with the 
book of the play beside you, you have noted how 
the dialogue and action have presented this story. 



APPENDIX B 

SCENARIO: "THE SECOND MRS. 
TANQUERAY " * 

Drama in Four Acts by Arthur W. Pinero 

ACT ONE 

Curtain rises on dinner scene at Tanqueray's rooms in 
London. Dinner is nearly over. Tanqueray, a hand- 
some man of forty-two; Misquith, stout and forty-seven; 
Jayne, a prosperous physician of forty-eight or -nine, 
are seated at table. Morse, Tanqueray's servant, is plac- 
ing cigars and spirit-lamp on table beside Tanqueray, 
then exits. 

Conversation shows that one old friend has not yet 
come, though expected — Cayley Drummle. Also that 
Tanqueray has an announcement to make, which is why 
he has invited his three best friends to dinner. This 
announcement he feels they will not approve, and it is 
possible this will be their last meeting. He is going to 
be married. His friends are astonished that he should 
feel such a thing likely to cause any change. He re- 
fuses to tell her name. They drink a toast to Mrs. 
Aubrey Tanqueray. They all agree to go later to find 
Drummle, and Tanqueray asks permission to finish a few 
notes before going. He goes to the other end of the 
room and sits at a writing table and begins to write. 

* Published by Walter H. Baker, Boston, Mass. 
290 



APPENDIX B 291 

Jayne and Misquith discuss his peculiar manner of 
announcing his approaching marriage. He has been 
a widower for some years. While they whisper, Morse 
enters, announcing Drummle. 

Drummle enters briskly. He is a little man of about 
forty-five. Tanqueray comes forward to greet him. His 
manner is humorously excited. His apology contains 
the information that, just as he was about to start for 
dinner at Tanqueray's, he received a note from an old 
friend of his mother's to come at once, as she was in 
" sad trouble." He had ten minutes to spare and so 
hurried to Lady Orreyed. At her home he had found 
everything upset ; in brief, that her son and heir, George 
Orreyed, had married a certain Mabel Hervey, a notori- 
ous woman of the under-world. Aubrey intimates that 
they none of them really know anything of her, and with 
an apology returns to his notes. 

The other three continue to discuss George Orreyed's 
misalliance. Tanqueray at first writes, then listens. Fi- 
nally, impatient, he gathers up his letters, and says he 
will finish them in the other room. He exits. 

Drummle is worried; he fears he has annoyed his 
friend. The others tell him that Tanqueray has just 
announced his approaching marriage to a woman he does 
not name. Drummle is anxious; asks the others, when 
they go, to leave him behind with Tanqueray. He tells 
them of what he knows of Tanqueray's unhappy first 
marriage to a cold, austere woman, who had insisted on 
sending their only daughter to a convent at a very 
early age. Later, the mother died, making her husband 
promise that the girl should remain in the convent and 



WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

complete her education. The girl is now nineteen, has 
refused to come home to her father, and intends to be- 
come a nun. Tanqueray has just said good-by to her. 
As Drummle reaches this point, Tanqueray re-enters. 

A little chatting between the four men, then Jayne and 
Misquith take their leave. Drummle and Tanqueray are 
alone. 

Tanqueray seems surprised that he has not gone with 
the others. Drummle thinks it best to talk things over, 
and encourages Tanqueray to do so. The name of the 
lady is revealed. Drummle has met her, and knows 
her past history which has linked her name intimately 
with that of several men. Tanqueray also knows these 
episodes to be true, because Paula has confessed them. 
He feels her to be a different sort of woman from the 
girl who has married George Orreyed. The two discuss 
the situation, which has been brought about by Tan- 
queray's loneliness, and the fact that he injures no one. 
While they talk, Morse enters and announces that the 
lady wishes to see him. Drummle hurries to take his 
leave. He goes out and Tanqueray goes with him. 

Morse puts some unopened letters on the mantelpiece 
against the clock. Tanqueray re-enters. 

Morse draws his attention to the letters, and exits. 

Tanqueray goes to door and calls Paula. She enters, 
and greets him affectionately. He chides her for com- 
ing to his rooms. She takes the matter lightly, and 
sits to eat some of the fruit left on the table. She tells 
him that she has spent the evening alone dreaming of 
him and their future life together, surrounded by the 



APPENDIX B 293 

nicest people, none of whom had ever heard of her or 
her life. She has written him a letter giving him a 
list of these old affairs. She asks him to read it after 
she has gone, and if he feels he cannot marry her, he 
is to send a messenger next morning. He refuses to 
even consider it, and burns the letter, unread. She tells 
him that if ever anything serious, that she cares about, 
happens to her, she will kill herself. Then she laughs, 
back to her gay mood, and exits. 

Tanqueray alone. He looks after her, then turns to 
the letters on the mantel. Recognizes the writing on 
one, and takes it down quickly. It is from Ellean, his 
daughter, telling him that she has had a change of heart, 
and that her duty as his daughter is by his side in his 
loneliness. Paula suddenly re-enters, in her cloak. He 
looks at her as if not seeing her. She teases him about 
not waiting until she had gone, to read his letters. He 
apologizes. She asks him to take her to her carriage. 
They exit together. 

Curtain 

ACT TWO 

Tanqueray and Paula are seated at breakfast at their 
home in Surrey. He is reading his letters. Two serv- 
ants hand dishes. They exit, and Tanqueray lays down 
his letters. Their conversation shows some slight an- 
noyance on Paula's part at Tanqueray's greater interest 
in his daughter, who is out with her dog, than in herself. 
He shows her that she is unjust, and she begs forgive- 
ness. Notes that one of his letters is from Drummle. 
Tanqueray tells her he is staying with a friend in the 
neighborhood, a Mrs. Cortelyon, who has never called 
on Paula. Tanqueray says that Drummle's visit to her 



294 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

is at an end, and he is coming there to call that morning, 
and they can invite him to stay with them. Paula is 
pleased enough, but the conversation shows that she is 
bored. Tanqueray sees a letter in her writing, waiting 
to be mailed. It is addressed to the wife of George 
Orreyed, the former Mabel Hervey, now Lady Orreyed. 
Further conversation shows that Paula's sensibility of 
the state of affairs is not as keen as it might be, since 
she does not see why there is anything wrong with 
the woman now that she is properly married, nor any 
great difference between Mabel and herself. Aubrey 
throws the letter down, and quietly takes up his news- 
paper. Paula has one of her sudden changes of mood 
and says she is sorry. She tells him that the letter 
contains an invitation to the Orreyeds to visit them. He 
looks helplessly at her. She bursts out that she is tired 
of their life and its dullness, just the three, themselves 
and Ellean. Tanqueray suggests that when people be- 
gin to come — she interrupts with the statement that no 
one means to come. She is particularly bitter against 
Mrs. Cortelyon, who had been an old friend of Tan- 
queray and his first wife. She suggests that since his set 
will not take her up, that he might have joined hers. 
She sees suddenly that she is hurting him, and is again 
all penitence. Ellean enters. 

She is a grave Madonna-like girl of nineteen. Paula 
kisses her affectionately, while Ellean hardly responds. 
Paula sits at the piano, and rattles off a gay melody. 
Behind her back, father and daughter kiss affectionately 
and furtively. The servants enter to clear away the 
breakfast things. As Paula plays, the two chat. Tan- 
queray suggests that Ellean be more with Paula, as 
the latter likes company. Ellean says that they are 



APPENDIX B 295 

together nearly all day, but she is not naturally lively. 
She will offer to go down with Paula to the village. 
He thanks her. Ellean exits. 

Paula stops playing, and asks if he and Ellean have 
had their little confidence. She shows that she is jeal- 
ous of Ellean, also that she craves the girl's affection. 
She begs him to teach Ellean to love her, and promises 
to tear up the letter to Lady Qrreyed. He is glad, and 
asks her to consider Ellean and " that woman " side by 
side. This makes her angry, because his thought is 
again first of Ellean. Ellean re-enters. 

Tanqueray, clenching his hands, goes out. Ellean asks 
if he is angry. Paula says that she drives him distracted 
because she is jealous. Ellean says she has known it, 
and it has hurt her, and asks Paula if she wants her to go 
away. Paula begs her to try to love her. Ellean shows 
her distress, tries to respond, and cannot. Paula is hurt 
and angry. A servant enters, announcing Drummle. 
Exits. 

Enter Drummle. All shake hands. Ellean tells Paula 
that her father wishes her to go with Paula to the 
village; does she care to have her? Paula coldly con- 
sents, and asks her to tell the servant to get the cart 
ready. Ellean exits. 

Paula shows her dissatisfaction to Drummle. She re- 
fers to certain jolly days in one of her earlier affairs 
when she had met Drummle as a friend of the man's. 
Drummle stares at her in shocked surprise. Enter 
Tanqueray. 

Tanqueray greets him cordially. He invites him to 
pay them a visit. Drummle accepts. Paula is delighted 






296 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

at a new interest and goes out to plan for his 

visit. 

Tanqueray tells Drummle that he is worried about 
Ellean and his wife. It would be pleasanter if the two 
were friends, and yet, for Ellean's sake, he is afraid: 
Paula has so many curious warped notions to which 
she gives the freest expression. Drummle suggests that 
perhaps Tanqueray is making a mistake in keeping 
Ellean from all knowledge of evil or in supposing her 
so ignorant of it; it would be better for her to go about 
more. Tanqueray reminds him that if she does, sooner 
or later she must learn who and what her stepmother 
was. Drummle tells him that it is inevitable she should, 
in any case, and the news will be easier to bear if her 
knowledge of the world and its people is greater. Tan- 
queray reminds him that he has no way of introducing 
Ellean to the proper friends because of his present cir- 
cumstances; if there were only some woman friend. 
They hear noise of wheels. Tanqueray supposes them 
to be Paula's cart. Drummle goes to the window, and 
says they belong to Mrs. Cortelyon's cart; she is then 
announced by the servant. Tanqueray is surprised. 
Drummle explains that Mrs. Cortelyon has decided she 
has been unkind in not calling sooner and has brought 
him over that morning, and wants to take Ellean abroad 
with her. 

Enter Ellean and Mrs. Cortelyon. She is a handsome 
woman of forty-five. She greets Tanqueray cordially, 
and asks for Paula. Drummle and Ellean talk apart. 
Mrs. Cortelyon apologizes frankly for her neglect of 
Paula, but begs to be allowed to make amends and be 
friends once more. Enter Paula, dressed for driving. 



APPENDIX B 297 

She greets Mrs. Cortelyon with ostentatious and cold 
politeness, pretending never to have heard of her; she 
seems to take delight in making Mrs. Cortelyon's posi- 
tion awkward and uncomfortable. Drummle comes over 
closer to Mrs. C. Mrs. C. speaks of her girlhood friend- 
ship for the first Mrs. T. Ellean comes closer to her 
to listen. Paula notices this, and sneers. Ellean shows 
her pleasure in Mrs. C.'s personality. Paula notices this, 
also. Mrs. C. broaches the subje'ct of taking Ellean with 
her to Paris, and then to London for the season. Tan- 
queray thanks her. Paula is silent. Paula then shows 
her suspicion that this has been planned by Ellean and 
her husband behind her back, and is glad that it has not. 
She asks Ellean what she wants to do, and Ellean begs 
to go. Tanqueray consents, but Paula feels that they 
are taking Ellean away from her society. She barely 
nods good-by to Mrs. C. Tanqueray and Drummle go 
out, then Ellean and Mrs. C. Paula throws herself 
with a fierce cry on a chair. 

Tanqueray re-enters. Sees she has removed her hat 
and coat, and asks if she is not going out. He asks if 
she is angry about Ellean and Mrs. C. She shows by 
her manner and speech that she is strung to the highest 
pitch of tension. She rings for a servant, who enters. 
She tells him to have the groom drive down at once to 
the village and mail a letter. She hands him the letter 
to Lady Orreyed. Servant exits. Tanqueray asks her 
to recall the letter. She refuses, and he starts to do 
it himself. She threatens, if he does so, she will walk 
out of the house. She is furious at his letting Ellean 
go with a woman who has neglected to call on her for 
two months and who with her first visit is permitted to 
take away his daughter. She considers it an insult to 



298 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

herself. She claims this justifies her in seeking com- 
panions of her own. He remonstrates, but she exits, 
saying only, " We'll see ! " 

Curtain 



ACT THREE 

After dinner in the drawing-room in the Tanqueray 
home. Lady Orreyed, a pretty, affected doll of a 
woman, is sitting on an ottoman. Paula is sitting at a 
table. She looks pale and unhappy. Lady Orreyed has 
been taking a nap and wakes up. A servant enters with 
coffee. George Orreyed comes in from the lawn. He is 
a vacuous-looking man of about thirty-five. He sits 
on the settee and falls asleep. Lady O. speaks to Paula, 
asking if she and Tanqueray have " made it up." Paula 
answers that they only speak before others. Lady O. 
is proudly conscious of her superior social position as 
the wife of a baronet and tries to advise and patronize 
Paula. Paula hints that the place must be dull for 
them. Lady O. is quite satisfied. She is stupid and 
Paula is plainly bored. Tanqueray and Drummle en- 
ter from lawn. 

They stop just outside to watch Paula, who is playing 
the piano; Lady O., who is nodding, and Orreyed, who 
is fast asleep. They speak of how unhappy Paula looks. 
Tanqueray speaks of their differences, and that Paula 
only speaks to him when the Orreyeds are present. 
Drummle is going to have a talk with Paula, and they 
plan to get Orreyed and Lady O. out of the room. Tan- 
queray asks them into the billiard-room, and tells 
Drummle to bring Paula. Tan., Lady O., and Orreyed 
exit. 



APPENDIX B 299 

Paula begins playing again. Drummle sits to listen. 
He speaks of the beauty of the night as one to induce 
the making-up of her quarrel with her husband. She 
accuses him of being romantic, and begins to wander 
around the room. He tells her he is leaving the next 
day. She shows regret and tells him how she hates 
the Orreyeds; she realizes she has outgrown their kind. 
She confesses that she has intercepted some letters from 
Mrs. C. and Ellean to Tanqueray. She hardly knows 
why she did it, yet she was jealous that Ellean wrote 
to her father and not a line to herself. She wonders 
how she can get them to Tanqueray. He suggests that 
she will be happier if she gives them into Tanqueray's 
own hands with the truthful explanation. He says he 
will send Tanqueray to her at once, and exits. 

She tries to call him back, then waits the inevitable 
explanation. Enter Tanqueray. 

She turns her face aside and hands him the letters, 
telling him she had kept them back. He looks at them 
then lays them aside, telling her it does not matter. She 
tells him she supposes he is anxious to open his letters, 
and starts to go. He has hoped their quarrel is over, 
but she reminds him that Ellean has not returned. He 
asks her why she need begrudge Ellean her little hap- 
piness. She does not, if it were with another woman. 
He reminds her that if not Mrs. C, it would have to 
be someone else, as they are not in a position to intro- 
duce her properly. She accuses him of having sent 
Ellean away to keep her from the contamination of her 
company. She forces him to confess this is true. This 
infuriates her, and she lifts her hands as if to strike him. 
He forces her to sit and listen to him. He tells her 



300 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

there is one part of her life of which she has never 
told him, the time when she was like Ellean, and to 
think of the two Paula's and what kind of friends two 
such women would have been. She is hurt and angry, 
but refuses to see the danger, insisting she could be as 
good a mother to Ellean as her own mother. He tells 
her she may believe that, but that she is blind; every 
belief a young girl holds sacred is for her only a joke, 
he has seen Ellean redden at some risque story Paula has 
rattled off unthinkingly in her presence: he is making 
the only excuse possible for her when he tells her she 
is blind. She protests that Ellean blushes easily. He 
says that she too blushed as easily a few years ago. 
This reaches her and she sinks down, sobbing violently. 
He tries to soothe her. She becomes calmer, and begs 
him to get rid of the Orreyeds, and then, when the 
time comes for Ellean to leave Mrs. C, to give her an- 
other chance. Then, shrinking from his advance, she 
exits. 

Tanqueray, alone, sits with his hand covering his face. 
Servant enters, announcing Mrs. C. and Ellean. They 
enter at once. Servant exits. 

They have not heard from him and are anxious. He 
remembers, silently, that the letters have not reached 
him. They have written about a certain subject and 
he has not answered. Tanqueray takes up the let- 
ters. Ellean and Mrs. C. notice that they are unopened. 
He explains that an accident delayed them. Ellean 
exits. 

Mrs. C. tells Tanqueray that Ellean has come home 
to stay for a while and explains. In Paris, Ellean has 
met Hugh Ardale, a brother of a friend of Mrs. C.'s. 



APPENDIX B 301 

Ardale has a reputation as a hero in some affair in 
India and has won a V. C. He is invalided home, and 
has become much attached to Ellean and she to him. 
She had written to him at once, and then not hearing 
had brought Ellean home to hear what her people thought 
of it. As Ellean's chaperon she is responsible. He asks 
about Ardale; she tells him he is in every way worthy. 
He has come to England with them and is waiting at 
her house to meet Ellean's family. She starts to go. 
Re-enter Ellean. 

She embraces Mrs. C. affectionately and bids her 
good-night. Mrs. C. exits. 

Ellean tells her father how happy she is. He begs 
her to be very kind to Paula, and exits, to accompany 
Mrs. C. 

Ellean, alone, turns toward the window. A rose is 
thrown in. Enter Ardale, a handsome man of about 
twenty-seven. She is startled, and tells him he ought 
not to have come that way. He looks upon it rather 
as a lark. She is angry at his treating her so lightly. He 
is unhappy and begs her to walk with him in the gar- 
den, but she refuses. She hears someone coming, and 
he goes, telling her he will wait for her. Enter Paula. 

She is surprised to see Ellean. Ellean explains that she 
is to stay home for a while. Her love for Ardale softens 
her, and she kisses Paula. Paula is deeply touched. 
Ellean tells her about Ardale, but does not mention 
his name. She says he is waiting outside, and asks 
Paula what she had better do. Paula asks her to have 
him come in, and then she will meet him before Tan- 



302 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

queray. Reluctantly, Ellean goes to get him. Paula, 
alone, looks at herself hastily in the mirror. 

Re-enter Ellean, followed by Ardale. She introduces 
them. The two stare at each other. Paula is calm, and 
tells Ellean that she and Captain Ardale have met be- 
fore. She tells Ellean she would like to talk with him 
alone. Ellean nods smilingly, and exits. 

The two face each other. She tells him Tanqueray 
has only gone home with Mrs. C. and will be back soon. 
What is to be done? The conversation shows that Ar- 
dale is one of the men under whose protection she 
had lived at one time in other days. He asks if her 
husband knows of him. She says she has never told him 
of this particular affair. He suggests that they hold 
their tongues about it. She insists she must tell Tan- 
queray. He threatens that if she does he will shoot 
himself, and exits. 

Curtain 

ACT FOUR 

Later the same evening — Paula is still sitting where 
Ardale left her. Lady O. enters; asks her what is the 
matter. Asks if she and Tanqueray have made up. 
Paula says they have. Lady O. is glad and in her 
common way patronizes her. 

Enter Orreyed. He is tipsy. In this mood he al- 
ways regrets his misalliance and talks of his poor 
mother, weeping over it, a mood his wife hates. She 
gets him off to bed. 

Enter Drummle. He asks for Tanqueray. Paula tells 
him he has gone to see Mrs. Cortelyon home. This is 



APPENDIX B 303 

the first information Drummle has had of their return. 
He asks if Paula and Tan. have made up. She says 
they have. He goes out. 

Enter Tanqueray. He asks if she has seen Ellean. 
He speaks of the attachment, and the brave things he 
has heard of Ardale. She tells him suddenly that she 
has seen Ardale. He is surprised. She reminds him 
of the letter he burnt on the eve of their wedding. Ar- 
dale's name was in that letter. She says she has told 
Ardale that she must tell her husband. A servant enters 
with a letter for Paula. It is from Ardale. She hands 
it to Tanqueray to read. He does so, aloud. Ardale says 
he will wait in Paris for a message. He asks Paula 
to invent some excuse for Ellean, and begs her to do 
what she can for him. Tanqueray tears the letter up. 
It will not be answered. 

Ellean enters. They both start guiltily. Paula exits. 

Tanqueray tells Ellean she cannot see Ardale again. 
She says, if it has to do with his past, she has heard 
it and has forgiven him because of the lives he saved 
in India at the risk of his own. Tanqueray says he 
will say more in the morning. He exits. 

Ellean alone. Paula enters. Ellean accuses her of 
being the one to poison her father against Ardale. Some- 
thing in Paula's manner and face tell Ellean the truth. 
She tells Paula she has always known what she was, which 
is why she has found it so hard to like her. Paula, furi- 
ous, says it is a lie, and starts to strike Ellean. Tan- 
queray re-enters. 

Ellean says it was her fault, tells her father she never 
wants to see Ardale again, and exits. 



304 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

Paula tells him of what Ellean has said to her, that 
the truth is in her face. They decide they must face 
things and try to get the suspicion from Ellean's mind. 
He suggests that Ellean can go back to the convent, and 
he and Paula will go abroad and begin again. But Paula 
is too broken to be comforted, and exits. 

Enter Drummle. He has heard of the proposed en- 
gagement, and says that Ardale has left Mrs. C.'s, and 
left a note. Drummle seems to think him eligible. Tan- 
queray breaks out — Ardale has only " led a man's life " 
and probably he and Drummle have made others suffer 
as he is suffering now for this " living a man's life." 
Drummle asks what has happened. Tanqueray tells him 
that Paula and Ardale were old friends. 

Ellean enters, frightened and staggering, telling her 
father to go at once to Paula. He rushes out. 

She tells Drummle that Paula has killed herself. 
Murmuring that it is her fault, that she should have been 
kinder, she faints. 

Curtain 



APPENDIX C 

illemoranbum of Agreement made and entered into by and be- 
tween 

party of the first part, and 

party of the second part. 

WHEREBY IT IS AGREED AS FOLLOWS: 

1. The party of the first part hereby appoints the party of the 
second part sole agent for the term of six (6) months from 

the date of this agreement for the sale of the 

(Name of play) 

2. The party of the second part undertakes to use her best 
endeavors to obtain the fullest market, and the party of the 
first part shall not, during the continuance of this agreement, 
enter into any contract concerning the above mentioned rights, 
without the knowledge of the party of the second part. 

3. The party of the second part shall not enter into agree- 
ments on behalf of the party of the first part or in any way 
bind the party of the first part, but undertakes to submit to 

any offer which she may succeed in obtaining as agent 
for the party of the first part, and no agreement shall be bind- 
ing on the party of the first part without signature. 
Should the party of the second part violate this clause, then any 
agreement so entered into by the party of the second part shall 
be null and void and her agency shall cease. 
* 4. The party of the second part is hereby authorized to col- 
lect the moneys due to the party of the first part under any 
contract obtained through the efforts of the party of the second 
part signed by the party of the first part during the continuance 
of this agreement, and shall deliver all moneys as and when 
received by her in respect to such contract, together with all 
documents, accounts, etc., relating thereto, within one week of 
the receipt of the same, and shall have the right of deducting a 

305 



306 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

commission of ten per cent from said moneys received, and 
such commission shall be the sole remuneration of the party of 
the second part, and she shall not have any claim against the 
party of the first part for any expenses incurred by her in the 
course of her agency under this agreement. 

5. Should the party of the second part fail in any instance to 
carry out the provisions of the foregoing clause, this agreement, 
so far as it deals with the party of the second part's right to 
collect the moneys due, shall be at an end, and the party of the 
second part, as and from the date of such failure and default, 
shall not be entitled to claim or deduct any further sum by 
way of commission. 

6. At the end of such period as may be decided in clause 
one hereof, either party to this agreement may terminate the 
same by thirty days notice in writing. 

7. Upon the termination of this agreement the party of the 
second part shall have no claim whatever upon the party of the 
first part for any commission except in respect to contracts 
signed by the party of the first part prior to such termination. 

8. This contract shall be binding upon heirs, legal representa- 
tives, and assigns of the respective parties hereto. 

IN WITNESS WHEREOF we have hereunto set our hands 
and seals this 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The following list is merely ' suggestive, and is by 
no means complete. You will find the titles grouped. 
The first group touches more directly on the theories 
of play-construction. The second deals more es- 
pecially with the drama itself, its conditions past 
and present. The third touches particularly on the 
dramatist and his personality ; the fourth is a group 
of very interesting critical essays and reviews col- 
lected by their authors under the various titles given. 
Next you will find the three books on copyright, then 
three books which can be recommended to the writer 
in any field. Last on the list is a very excellent work 
giving the thirty-six possible dramatic plots. I do 
not know that the book has been translated; if you 
read French at all, its perusal will be most profitable. 
In addition, there are many magazine articles of 
the first order which may be found by consulting 
Poole's Index, or any other index of the kind. Sev- 
eral of the best magazines have dramatic depart- 
ments, in charge of such writers as Clayton Hamil- 
ton, Walter Pritchard Eaton, Burns Mantle, Chan- 
ning Pollock, and others, with occasional articles 
from men and women whose opinions are worthy of 
attention if not always agreement. 

307 



308 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

Play-making William Archer 

How to See a Play Richard Burton 

The Appreciation of the 

• Drama Charles Hi Caffin 

How to Appreciate the 

Drama Thomas Littlefield Marble 

A Study of the Drama . . . Brander Matthews 
The Study of the Stage . . . Brander Matthews 
Drama: Encyclopedia Bri- 

tannica Sir Adolphus William Ward 



The Influence of the Drama . Granville Forbes Sturgis 
The Modern Drama ...... Ludwig Lewisohn 

The American Stage of To- 
day . Walter Pritchard Eaton 

The Theatre of To-day . . . Hiram Kelly Moderwell 
The New American Drama. Richard Burton 
The New Movement in the 

Theatre Sheldon Cheney 

The Play of To-day Elizabeth R. Hunt 

Aspects of Modern Drama. Frank Wadleigh Chandler 
The Drama of To-day .... Charlton Andrews 
The Romance of the Ameri- 
can Theatre Mary Caroline Crawford 

Plays of Our Forefathers . . Charles Miles Gayley 



Modern Dramatists Ashley Dukes 

Dramatists of To-day Edward Everett Hale, Jr. 

Iconoclasts James Huneker 

Sardou and the Sardou 

Plays Jerome A. Hart 

The French Dramatists .... Brander Matthews 
The American Dramatist . . Montrose J. Moses 

Ibsen Montrose J. Moses 

The Quintessence of Ibsen- 
ism Bernard Shaw 

The True Adventures of a 

Play Louis Evans Shipman 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 309 

About the Theatre ....... William Archer 

Study and Stage William Archer 

The Theory of the Theatre . Clayton Hamilton 

Studies in Stagecraft Clayton Hamilton 

The Foundations of a Na- 
tional Drama Henry Arthur Jones 

The Playhouse and the 

Play Percy Mackaye 

Drama and Life A. B. Walkley 

i 

Copyright: Its History and 

Its Law Richard Rogers Bowker 

Playright and Copyright in 

All Countries Colles and Hardy 

The Law of Copyright .... J. B. Richardson 

English Composition Barrett Wendell 

Talks on Writing Arlo Bates 

The Making of Arguments. . J. H. Gardiner 

Les Trente-six Situations 

Dramatique Georges Polti 

Following is a list of published plays which illus- 
trate certain points brought up from time to time 
in the course of this work. In addition to this list, 
read the works of other dramatists, especially those 
mentioned in Chapter III, and such translations of 
the foreign writers' plays as you can find. These 
will suggest themselves during your other reading 
and study. 

Milestones Arnold Bennett and Ed- 
ward Knoblauch 

To illustrate point in Chapter V. 
Mary Jane's Pa Edith Ellis 

Original and modern type of so-called " rural " 

play. 



310 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

The New Sin Basil Macdonald Hastings 

Good example of the use of the confidant. A 
play without a woman or a love-affair. An ad- 
ditional act, the fourth, was added for produc- 
tion in New York. Chapter VIII. 

The Mollusc Hubert Henry Davies 

As a Man Thinks Augustus Thomas 

The two preceding in Chapter VIII. 

The World and His Wife 
(a free adaptation of 
Echegaray's El Gran 

Galeotto) Chas. F. Nirdlinger 

An excellent example of the starting and work- 
ing out of a dramatic situation, except for one 
soliloquy in Act 2, which could have been han- 
dled in another way. Chapter XI. 

The Thief Henri Bernstein 

Mrs. Dane's Defense Henry Arthur Jones 

These two plays give ideal examples of long 
dramatic dialogue between two people only. 
Chapter XIII. 

The Terrible Meek Charles Rann Kennedy 

See Chapter XV. 

Disraeli Louis N. Parker 

The Importance of Being 

Earnest Oscar Wilde 

See Chapter XVII for these two plays. 

Joseph and His Brethren. Louis N. Parker 
See Chapter XXL 

The Yellow Jacket Benrimo and Hazelton 

A different and unusual play. Chapter 
XXI. 

The Blue Bird Maurice Maeterlinck 

Allegorical. Chapter XXI. 

Tiger Witter Bynner 

Modern play told in blank verse. Chapter 
XXI. 

The Arrow Maker Mary Austin 

The Scarecrow Percy Mackaye 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 311 

The Man from Home .... Tarkington and Wilson 

The Fortune Hunter Winchell Smith 

The two preceding plays are successful exam- 
ples of the " heart interest " type of play as 
distinguished from the so-called psychological 
drama. See Chapters XI and XII for first 
of these. 

The Amazons A. W. Pinero 

The Fascinating Mr. Van- 

dervelt Alf<red Sutro 

Cousin Kate Hubert Henry Davies 

Three examples of pure comedy. Last play 
mentioned in Chapter XI. 

Baby Mine Margaret Mayo 

A successful farce which, in the opinion of 
some, erred in having a note of tragedy in the 
undercurrent. 

Ghosts Ibsen 

Kindling Charles Kenyon 

Two examples of the sociological and propa- 
ganda play, widely different in theme and 
treatment. The latter is mentioned in Chapter 
XII for two points in construction. 

The Nigger Edward Sheldon 

The Second Mrs. Tanqueray A. W. Pinero 

The two plays analyzed in Appendix A and B. 

Romance Edward Sheldon 

Fanny's First Play Bernard Shaw 

Examples of the play within a play. The lat- 
ter illustrates a point in Chapter VII. 

Chief Contemporary Dram- 
atists Edited by Thos. H. Dick- 
inson 
A collection of twenty representative plays by 
as many representative dramatists of the pres- 
ent day. 

In addition, following is a short list of good one- 
act plays, to be read in connection with those men- 
tioned in Chapter XXII. 



312 WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY 

Carrots Alfred Sutro, translated 

from the French. 

War-Brides Marion Craig Wentworth 

Across the Border Beulah Marie Dix 

Happiness, and other Plays J. Hartley Manners 
Possession, " " " George Middleton 
Embers, " George Middleton 

Tradition, " " " George Middleton 



INDEX 

In most instances* the references are to concrete words and 
phrases. In some cases, however, the reference points to some- 
thing of which the word in the Index is the expression. 
For instance: Psychology in the Index may not be found as 
a word on every page listed under that heading; but some psy- 
chological aspect of the subject will be noted on that page. 



Abbreviations of stage busi- Actors, parts for certain: 96, 



ness, 11. 

" Act in one " — vaudeville, 11. 

Act I, The Nigger, 271. 

Act II, The Nigger, 278. 

Act III, The Nigger, 285. 

Act I, The Second Mrs. Tan- 
queray, 290. 

Act II, The Second Mrs. Tan- 
queray, 293. 

Act III, The Second Mrs. 
Tanqueray, 298. 

Act. IV, The Second Mrs. 
Tanqueray, 302. 

Acting quality of play, 161. 

Acting-time of act, 210; of 
play, 210. 

Act: beginning of, 205; length 
of, 115; number of, 113, 
114. 

Action: 42, 43, 44, 67, 68, 115, 
136, 140, 172-183; distract- 
ing, 106; lines that impede, 
166; retarded, 135. 

Actions: characters suited to, 
83; suited to character, 158. 

Actor: 6, 7, 19, 22, 55, 58, 71, 
76, 77, 78, 90, 92, 93, 95, 96, 
97, 100, 111, 127, 138, 141, 
153, 155, 157, 164, 181, 183, 
188, 193, 194, 199, 211, 239. 

Actors, extra, 204. See Su- 
pernumeraries. 



97, 216, 248. 

Adaptation, 223, 225, 227. 

Agents, 248; fees, 257. 

Allegorical plays: 228, 233. 

Amateurs: plays for, 234, 237, 
243. 

Analysis of The Nigger, 269. 

Apelles, 264. 

Appearance: of characters, 
86, 87, 88, 206; of manu- 
script, 198-211. 

Appendix A: 115, 136, 269. 

Appendix B: 116, 136, 270, 
290. 

Appendix C: 257, 305. 

"Apron": 5, 6. 

Archer, William: 11, 35, 65, 
104, 113, 135, 265, 308, 309. 

Argument: 35, 38, 113, 125, 
126, 146. See Theme, Syl- 
logism, Discussion. 

Aristotle: 43, 68. 

Arliss, George, 240. 

Armstrong, Paul, 48. 

Arsene Lupin, 115. 

As a Man Thinks: 82, 209, 
310. 

Asbestos curtain, 5. 

Aside: 6, 153, 156. See Mon- 
ologue, Soliloquy. 

"Atmosphere": 79, 147, 151. 



313 



314 



INDEX 



Attributes of characters: 31, 
76, 81, 82, 83, 84, 121, 126, 
145, 146, 158, 159, 160. 

Audience: 34, 37, 58, 82, 91, 
96, 100, 103, 105, 111, 125, 
127, 137, 159, 164, 168, 175, 
177, 193; ignoring, 101; in- 
forming, 109, 143. See 
Public. 

Author: 17, 19, 25, 33, 34, 37, 
71, 72, 117, 156, 217, 218, 
264. 

Authors' League: 253, 257. 

Author's name: 26, 202, 255. 

Awakening of Spring, The, 
102. 

Barrie, J. M.: 192, 238. 
Bates, Arlo: 104, 309. 
Belasco, David: 49, 93. 
Bennett, Arnold: 3, 30, 54, 55, 

56 9 309. 
Bernstein, Henri: 110, 121, 

141, 310. 
Besant, Walter, 54. 
Biblical plays: 170, 231. 
Bibliography, 307. 
Big scenes, 96. 
Binding of MS., 201. 
Bird of Paradise, The, 11. 
Blank verse: 94, 228. 
"Blind-alleys": 131, 132, 133. 
Blue Bird, The: 57, 233, 310. 
Blue-penciling, 94. 
Book-publication compared to 

play-production, 248. 
"Borders," 12. 
Bought and Paid For: 130, 

195. 
Bowker, Richard Rogers: 259, 

260, 261, 262, 309. 
Brewster's Millions, 155. 
Brieux, Eugene: 102, 268. 
Broadhurst, George, 131. 
Broken sentences, 142. 
Brokers for leasing plays, 248. 
Brookfield, Charles H. E.: 53, 

73. 
Browning, Robert, 230. 



"Business*: 94, 117, 181, 182, 

184, 192, 207, 208, 209. 
Bynner, Witter: 230, 231, 310. 

Carrots: 237, 312. 

Caste, 217. 

Cast of characters: 202, 203; 
The Nigger, 271. 

Catastrophe: 113, 119, 136. 
See Climax, Conclusion, 
Ending. 

Changes: in character, 89; in 
costume, 186; in plan, 217; 
in plot, 37; of scenery, 43, 
129. 

Characters: 2, 31, 66, 68, 75- 
89, 109, 112, 121, 125, 127, 
142, 143, 144, 146, 167, 180, 
182, 189, 190, 240; appear- 
ance, 86; cast of, 202; 
changes, 89; complexity, 77; 
described by another, 158; 
descriptions, 84, 206; elimi- 
nation of, 77, 216; introduc- 
tion of, 125; names, 85, 204, 
209; new, 83; relation to 
plot and each other, 79; ac- 
tions suited to, 158; 
speeches suited to, 157; 
suited to actions, 83; un- 
manageable, 78. 

Climax: 68, 113, 130, 242. 
See Catastrophe, Conclu- 
sion, Ending. 

Climbers, The, 248. 

"Closet-drama": 3, 50-61, 
229. 

Cohan, George M.: 143, 223. 

Collaboration: 18, 221, 256. 

Comedy: 161, 171, 193, 194, 
195, 240; lines, 161, 162, 
193; relief, 45, 161, 196. 

Comedy-sketches, 240. 

Commercial aspect: 222, 244- 
264. See Expense of pro- 
duction. 

Complexity of characters, 77. 

Comprehension of the story, 
30. 



INDEX 



315 



Conclusion: 34, 119, 125. See 
Catastrophe, Climax, End- 
ing. 

"Confidant," The: 79, 80, 81. 

Contemporary drama, 49. 

Continental school, 156. 

Contracts: 251, 252, 255, 256, 
305. 

Copyright: 222, 256, 258, 259, 
260. 

Costume, Changes of, 186. 

Cousin Kate: 137, 311. 

Craig, Gordon, 13. 

Criticisms, Too many, 219. 

Cults, 103. 

Culture of author, 25. 

Curtain: asbestos, 5; drop, 5, 
11. 

Curtain-raisers: 237, 239. 

Damaged Goods, 102. 

Danger of too many criti- 
cisms, 219. 

Dangerous half-truth, (tech- 
nique), 64. 

Dead-issues, 40. 

Delayed action. See Retard- 
ation of action. 

Description of characters: 84, 
158, 206. 

Description of scenes, 116. 

Desired effect: 90, 100, 109, 
110, 124, 125, 126, 169, 176, 
177. 

Development: 81, 116, 118, 
121, 125, 158, 167, 168, 172. 

Diagram of stage, 15. 

Dialect, 149. 

Dialogue: 39, 58, 122, 138, 
145-175, 207, 208, 209, 219. 

Difficulties: 219— and all other 
pages. 

Directions, Stage: 16, 182. 
See " Business." 

Director, Stage: 26, 92, 93, 95, 
106. 

Discussions and arguments: 

39, 146. 
Disraeli: 195, 310. 



Distinction between theme 
and subject, 36. 

Distracting action, 106. 

Distracting scenery, 106. 

Drama and Life, 52. 

Drama: 180; "closet," 50-61; 
contemporary, 49 ; " liter- 
ary," 50, 55, 59, 229. 

Dramatic action: 176-183. See 
Action. 

Dramatic club, 22. 

Dramatic Essays and Opin- 
ions, 1. 

Dramatic instinct: 17, 21, 23, 
59, 133, 265. 

Dramatic knowledge, 22. 

Dramatic pause, 179. 

Dramatic sketches, 238. 

Dramatization: 222, 227, 257. 

Drao, to act, 51. 

Drop curtain: 5, 11. 

"Drops," 9. 

Duchess of Dantzig, 231. 

Duologue: 138, 140. 

Early days of theater: 5, 6, 7, 
8, 10, 72, 93, 113, 153, 156. 

Eaton, Walter Pritchard: 21, 
59, 97, 98, 268, 307, 308. 

Effect, Desired. See Desired 
effect. 

Electrician, 12. 

Elimination of a character: 
77, 216. . 

Emotional lines: 156, 160. 

Emotion, Speeches suited to, 
160. 

Emphasis: 78, 134, 157, 165, 
172, 174. 

Empty pause: 178, 179. 

"Empty stage": 118, 137, 
179. 

Ending: 37, 42, 96, 119, 125, 
126, 136, 137, 242. See Ca- 
tastrophe, Climax, Conclu- 
sion. 

Ensemble scenes, 147. 

Entr'actes: 114, 127, 210. 



316 



INDEX 



Entrances: 22, 138, 139, 178, 
179, 182, 185, 186, 187, 188, 
189, 192, 207. 

Epigram, 195. 

Estimating acting-time of 
act or play, 210. 

Example: of scenario, 269- 
290; of synopsis, 205; typ- 
ing MS., 207, 208, 209. 

Exclamation: 115, 155, 165, 
166. 

Exits: 22, 68, 138, 139, 178, 
179, 182, 186, 187, 189, 190. 

Expense of production: 43, 
44, 69, 129, 203, 241. See 
Commercial aspect. 

Explanation: too early, 121; 
too late, 120. See Develop- 
ment. 

Exposition: 29, 43, 118, 124, 
134, 173, 174. 

" Extras." See Supernumer- 
aries. 

Facetiousness, 162. 

Fanny's First Play: 72, 311. 

Farce: 160, 193, 196, 197, 217, 
240. 

" Feature " sketch, 242. 

Feeling for the theater, 265. 

Fees for play-broker, 257. 

Finale, 242. See Catastrophe, 
Climax, Conclusion, End- 
ing. 

"Fine writing": 58, 157. 

"First plays": 24, 26, 27, 76, 
128, 135/219, 267. 

Fitch, Clyde: 25, 248. 

"Flats": 8, 10. 

"Flies": 8, 13. 

Flights of fancy: 45, 47. 

Forced classification: 60, 61. 

Form of dialogue, 153-164. 

Foundations of a National 
Drama, The: 59, 309. 

Four rules for play-writing, 
90. 

Frohman, Charles: 4, 39. 



Galsworthy, John: 25, 89. 
Gardiner, J. H.: 38, 309. 
General culture, 25. 
Gesture: 56, 91, 183. 
Get-Rich-Quick Walling ford, 

143. 
Getting Married, 127. 
Gilbert and Sullivan: 96, 97. 
Good parts, 95. 
Good play? What is a, 268. 
Good sense, 74. 
Good taste, 103. 
" Green-room," The, 8. 
Gregory, Lady, 238. 
Ground-cloth, 7. 

Half-truth, A dangerous, 64. 
Hamilton, Clayton: 154, 196, 

238, 307, 309. 
Hand-written MSS., 199. 
Hapgood, Norman, 56. 
Hart, Jerome A.: 14, 20, 308. 
Harvest Moon, The, 82. 
Hastings, Charles, 114. 
Hedda Gabler, 110. 
Hichens, Robert, 172. 
High-lights, 106. 
Historical plays: 166, 169, 231. 
Home, C. F., 29. 
How the story is told: 71, 147.- 
Hughes, Rupert, 86. 
Hugo, Victor, 135. 

Ibsen: 54, 110, 226, 230, 267, 
308, 311. 

Iconoclasm, 69. 

Ignoring the audience, 101. 

Importance of Being Earnest, 
The: 196, 310. 

Important scene, 172. 

Informing the audience: 109, 
143. 

Ink for MSS.: 200, 201, 208. 

Instructions possible to fol- 
low, 190. 

Introduction of characters, 
125. 

Intrusions of the author: 71, 
72, 156. 



INDEX 



317 



Irritating personality (of 

character) : 81, 82, 83, 121. 
Israel: 141, 227. 

Jones, H. A.: 25, 51, 59, 63, 

75, 87, 141, 309, 310. 
Joseph and His Brethren: 

232, 310. 

Kennedy, Charles Rann: 25, 
57, 169, 310. 

Kenyon, Charles: 135, 311. 

Kindling: 132, 134, 311. 

Kistemacker, Henri: 80, 81. 

Klein, Charles, 223. 

Knowledge: of desired effect, 
177; of life, 18, 19, 171; of 
subject-matter, 31, 34, 35, 
46; of theater, 19, 62. 

Lady from OklaJioma^The, 83. 
Language: 141, 165, 168, 169, 

192. 
Laws and rules of play- writ- 
ing: 3, 17, 49, 90. 
Lawsuits: 246, 247. 
Learn by doing, 266. 
Leasing the play: 244-257. 
Left to the imagination: 30, 

148. 
Length of acts, 115. 
Length of play, 212. 
Lengthening a play, 215. 
Less than the best, 104. 
Life, Knowledge of: 18, 19, 

171. 
Lights: 7, 8, 11, 12, 13, 14. 
"Lines": 47, 141, 160, 161, 

166,190,193. See Dialogue. 
" Literary " drama : 50, 55, 59, 

229. See " Closet-drama." 
" Literary " speeches, 160. 
Literature in the theater, 57. 
Little Minister, The, 149, 187. 
Local color, 149. 
Long casts: 203, 241. 
Long speeches: 162, 163, 164. 
"Loose ends": 127, 130, 137, 

179. 



Mackaye, Percy: 69, 309, 310. 

Madame Sans-G$ne, 231. 

Maeterlinck, Maurice: 57, 233, 
310. 

Making of Arguments, The: 
38, 309. 

Making drama, 180. 

Manager: 26, 38, 44, 61, 69, 83, 
117, 199, 203, 211, 238, 245, 
247, 250. 

Managers, Rules of some, 
'246. 

Man from Home, The: 121, 
137, 311. 

Manner of typing " busi- 
ness": 207, 208, 209. 

Manner of typing MSS.: 207, 
208, 209. 

Manner of writing " busi- 
ness," 192. 

Manuscript: 11, 198-211; bind- 
ing, 201; hand-written, 199; 
ink used, 200, 201, 208; 
lengthening play-, 215; 
length of, 212; typing play-, 
207; paper, 200; shortening 
play-, 216; title, 210, 211, 
261; title-page, 202; typed, 
199; unsolicited, 246. 

Marbury, Elizabeth, 63. 

Maternity, 268. 

Matthews, J. Brander: 136, 
308. 

Mayo, Margaret: 33, 311. 

McAllister, Hall, 242. 

Means of gaining dramatic 
knowledge, 22. 

Method of work of Sardou: 
14, 20. 

Milestones : 44, 309. 

Mollusc, The : 81, 310. 

Monologue: 6, 72, 79, 308. 
See Aside, Soliloquy. 

Moses, Montrose J.: 229, 308. 

Moving-picture rights, 253. 

Mrs. Dane's Defense: 141, 
310. 

My Lady's Lord, 203. 



318 



INDEX 



Name of author: 26, 202, 255. 

Names of characters: 85, 204, 
209. 

Narratives, 147. 

N e'er-Do-Well, The, 223. 

New characters, 83. 

New Sin, The: 81, 153, 227, 
310. 

Nigger, The: 269, 270, 311; 
Act I, 271; Act II, 278; 
Act III, 285; cast of char- 
acters, 271. 

"Niggling," 218. 

Novelty: 33, 70. 

Number of acts: 113, 114. 

Odette, 226. 
Officer 666, 217. 
Oliver Twist, 181. 
One-act plays: 237-243. 
One theme: 28, 35, 43, 44. 
On Trial, 29. 
Opening scene, 122. 
Othello, 36. 

"Padding": 39, 129, 136, 146, 

215 
Paper for MS.: 200, 201. 
Parker, Louis N.: 195, 232, 

310. 
Parts for certain actors: 96, 

97, 216, 248. 
Parts, Good, 95. 
Parts of the stage, 10. 
Parts of the theater, 5. 
Pause, Dramatic, 179; empty, 

178. 
Perfection, Technical: 48, 74. 
Periods of development, 116. 

See Development. 
Permanent dramatic litera- 
ture, 61. 
Personal equation, 249. 
Personality, Irritating. See 

Irritating personality. 
Phases of the story: 42-49. 
Phroso, 73. 
Pinero, Sir Arthur Wing: 24, 

217, 270, 290, 311. 



Pirates, Play-, 260. 

Plan for three-act comedy, 
116. 

Planning for sequence: 42, 
112. 

"Planting": 118, 172, 173, 
174. 

Plasticity of scenario, 112. 

Platform-stage, 5. 

Platonic dialogue, 145. 

Play-brokers: 248, 305. 

Play: amateurs, 234, 237, 243; 
study, 24, 25, 270, 290, 309, 
310, 311; propaganda, 37, 
38, 39, 141, 311; publica- 
tion, 11, 61, 133, 234, 235, 
259; title, 210, 211, 261; 
what is a good, 268. 

Play-pirates, 260. 

Play-production compared to 
book-publication, 248. 

Play-reader, 250. 

Plot: 37, 66, 67, 79, 90, 111, 
118, 247. See Story. 

Plots, Sub-: 44, 114. 

Practical play, 69. 

Practice: 18, 137, 217. 

Practice in writing scenario, 
115. 

Preliminary work, 66. 

Presentation, Scope of theat- 
rical, 69. 

Printed page and acted play: 
51-60, 120, 132, 161, 236. 

Prisoner of Zenda, The, 187. 

Prize competitions: 147, 250. 

Producer. See Manager. 

Production, Expense of. See 
Expense of production, 
Commercial aspect. 

Propaganda plays: 37, 38, 39, 
141, 311. 

"Properties": 8, 206. 

Proportion, 215. 

Proscenium: 5, 6, 8. 

Psychology: 18, 47, 84, 101, 
ilO, 119, 144, 167. 

Public: 33, 61, 100, 101, 102, 
104. See Audience. 



INDEX 



319 



Publication of plays: 11, 61, 
133, 154, 208, 234, 235, 259. 
Pulitzer, Walter, 200. 
"Punch": 239, 243. 
Puns, 171. 

Qualifications of author, 17. 
Quality of MS. paper, 200. 
Quits, 242. 

Rainbow, The, 78. 

Reaching the manager, 245. 

Reading play aloud: 70, 160. 

Realism: 9, 45, 106, 181. 

Reason for things: 31, 68, 112. 

Rehearsal: 19, 22, 26, 92, 185, 
191. 

Relation of characters to plot 
and to each other, 79. 

Retardation of action: 122, 
124, 135. 

Revision: 21, 27, 70, 79, 212, 
215, 216, 217, 219, 220, 267. 

Rhetorical speeches, 157. 

Rights: 253, 254, 257. 

Right selection of material, 
133. 

Robertson, Tom, 217. 

Romeo and Juliet, 77. 

Royalties: 222, 251-255; 258. 

Rules for Dramatic Litera- 
ture, 59. 

Rules and laws of play-writ- 
ing: 3, 17, 49, 90. 

Rules of some managers, 246. 

Rupert of Hentzau, 187. 

Sardou: 2, 14, 20, 94, 199, 226, 

267. 
Sardou and the Sardou Plays: 

14, 20, 308. 
" Say it first," 127. 
"Set": 16, 206. 
Scenario: 66, 67, 111-139, 245, 

262; better than play, 147. 
Scenario of The Second Mrs. 

Tanqueray, 290. 
Scene a faire, The: 135, 289. 
Scene descriptions: 116, 206. 



Scene, The important, 172; 
opening, 122. 

Scenery: 7, 9, 12, 43, 106, 129, 
206, 241, 242. 

Scenes: 7, 9, 128, 206; big, 96; 
ensemble, 147; topography 
of, 14, 188. 

Scenic sketch, 242. 

Scope of theatrical presenta- 
tion, 69. 

Scribe, Eugene: 2, 22, 113, 
124. 

Second Mrs. Tanqueray, The: 

116, 290, 311; Act I, 290; 
Act II, 293; Act III, 298; 
Act IV, 302. 

Secret, The: 110, 121. 

Seen and unseen side of story, 

133. 
Selection of story, 33. 
Sequence, Planning for, 42, 

112. 
Seriousness of the work, 267. 
Servant in the House, The, 57. 
Seven Keys to Baldpate, 223. 
Shakespeare: 33, 54, 55, 77, 96. 
Shaughraun, The, 194. 
Shaw, Bernard: 1, 3, 55, 72, 

117, 127, 128, 308, 311. 
Sheldon, Edward: 114, 269, 

270, 311. 

Shipman, Louis Evans: 249, 
308. 

Shore Acres, 137. 

Short casts, 202. 

Shortening a play, 216. 

" Sign-posts," 266. 

Situation, "Planting" a, 173. 

Size of MS. paper, 201. 

Sketches: comedy, 240; dra- 
matic, 238; scenic, 242; 
"slap-stick," 240; vaude- 
ville, 237. 

Slang: 170, 171. 

" Slice of life" drama: 33, 34, 
37, 42, 136. 

Soliloquy: 153, 154, 155, 156, 
157. See Aside, Mono- 
logue. 



320 



INDEX 



Song of Songs, The, 114. 

Soudan, The, 181. 

Speeches: 17; addressed to 
proper characters, 158, 167; 
comedy, 161, 193; easy of 
rendition, 160; "literary," 
160; rhetorical, 157; suited 
to characters, 157; suited to 
emotions, 160. See Dia- 
logue, " Lines." 

Spy, The, 80. 

Stage: 6, 7, 8, 11; diagram, 
15; bad direction, 46; direc- 
tion, 16, 95; directions, 9, 
16, 182, 184; director, 26, 
92, 93, 94, 95, 106; " empty," 
118, 179; manager, 92; parts 
of, 10; tricks, 72, 74, 79, 
80. 

"Star" parts: 216, 248. 

Stevenson, Robert Louis, 53. 

Stock rights, 254. 

Story: 18, 28-49, 60, 65; abil- 
ity to select, 34; adapted to 
play-form, 28, 111; beyond 
grasp of author, 34; clear- 
ness of, 66; comprehension 
of, 30; contrary to fact, 
45, 46, 47; how to tell, 71; 
kept moving, 180; phases of, 
42-49; seen and unseen 
sides, 133. See Plot. 

Student's Tavern, The, 199. 

Studies in Stagecraft: 238, 
309. 

Study: 4, 19, 20, 23; plays for, 
24, 25, 270, 290, 309, 310, 
311. 

Subject-matter, Knowledge 
of: 31, 34, 35, 46. 

Sub-plots: 44, 114. 

Suggestion for making sce- 
nario, 118. 

Supernumeraries, 204. 

Surprise, The: 110, 121, 174, 
243. 

Sutro', Alfred: 97, 98, 154, 311, 
312. 

Syllogism or argument, 113. 



Symbolical plays: 228, 233. 
Synopsis: 115, 205. 

Technical errors, 184. 
Technical perfection: 48, 74. 
Technical phraseology, 150. 
Technique: 59, 62-74, 185. 
Technique of the Novel, The, 

29. 
Terrible Meek, The: 169, 310. 
Territory, 253. 
Tess of the D'Urbervilles: 

179, 180. 
Theater: 5-16, 111; knowledge 

of, 19; parts of, 5. 
The Theatre, 114. 
Theatrical presentation, Scope 

of, 69. 
Theme: argument, 125, 126; 

story, 28-41; distinction be- 
tween theme and subject, 

36; one, 28, 35. 
Theory and practice: 1-4. 
The Thief, 141, 310. 
Thomas, A. E., 77. 
Thomas, Augustus: 25, 173, 

209, 310. 
Tiger: 230, 310. 
Times, N. Y.: 97, 100, 245. 
Timing an act: 210; a play, 

210. 
Title of play: 210, 211, 261. 
Title-page of MS., 202. 
To-Day, 211. 

Too many criticisms, 219. 
Topography of scene: 14, 188. 
Training (of author), 19. 
Transitions: 128, 168. 
Translation: 224, 261. 
" Traps," 7. 
True Adventures of a Play, 

The: 249, 308. 
Truth About an Author, The, 

55. 
Trying and failing, 267. 
"Types": 77, 79. 
Type-written MS., 199. 
Typing MS., Manner of, 

207. 



INDEX 



321 



"Unactable" play, The, 60. 
See " Closet-drama." 

Unfamiliar, Writing of the, 
32. 

Unities: 42, 43, 67, 93. 

Unmanageable characters, 78. 

Unsolicited MSS., 246. 

"Untalkable" sentences: 160, 
165. 

Unusual appearance of char- 
acters, 86. 

Unwieldy words, 165. 

Vaudeville: 238, 239, 240; 
"act in one," 11; contracts, 
255, 256; sketches, 237; 
"slap-stick," 240. 

Verse, Blank, 228. 

Vulgarity, 171. 

Walkley, A. B.: 52, 109, 266, 

309. 
Waller, Lewis, 63. 



Ward, Sir Adolphus William: 

42, 50, 308. 
Wedekind, 102. 
" Well-made " play: 1, 2, 113. 
Wendell, Barrett: 74, 91, 309. 
Western market, 251. 
What Every Woman Knows, 

192. 
What is a good play? 268. 
What not to do, when fin- 
, ished: 70, 71, 213. 
What to do, 212. 
Wilde, Oscar: 196, 310. 
"Wings": 7, 8, 16. 
Wit, 195. 

Witching Hour, The, 173. 
Within the Law, 173. 
Woman, The, 149. 
Woman with the Fan, The, 

172. 
Writing the play: 140-197. 
Writing of the unfamiliar, 32. 
Writing down to the public, 

33. 



By GEORGE MIDDLETON 

POSSESSION 

With The Groove, The Black Tie, A Good Woman, Circles 
and The Unborn. One-act American Plays. (Just pub- 
lished.) $1.35 net. 

These plays respectively concern (1) A divorced couple and 
their little girl; (2) A girl's wish to escape village monotony; 

(3) a woman's reputation and a man's public usefulness; 

(4) The quiet tragedy of a mulatto maid; (5) A mother's 
sacrifice to keep a home for her daughter, and (6) How 
an unknown woman brought a message to a young couple. 

EMBERS 

With The Failures, The Gargoyle, In His House, Ma- 
donna and The Man Masterful. One-act American 
Plays. $1.35. 

Richard Burton, in The Bellman: "Embers is a volume of sketches 
which show the trained hand of the expert and are, moreover, decidedly 
interesting for their psychological value." 

Prof. William Lyon Phelps of Yale: "The plays are admirable; the 
conversations have the true style of human speech, and show first-rate 
economy of words, every syllable advancing the plot. The little dramas 
are full of cerebration, and I shall recommend them in my public 
lectures." 

TRADITION 

With On Bail, Mothers, Waiting, Their Wife and The 
Cheat of Pity. One-act American Plays. $1.35. 

New York Times: Mr. Middleton's plays furnish interesting read- 
ing. . . . The author deserves praise for his skill and workmanship 
. . . succeeds admirably as a chronicler of striking events and as an 
interpreter of exceptional people in exceptional circumstances." 

NOWADAYS 

A three-act comedy of American Life. $1.00. 

The Nation: "Without a shock or a thrill in it, but steadily interest- 
ing and entirely human. All the characters are depicted with fidelity 
and consistency; the dialogue is good and the plot logical." 

Alice Stone Blackwell, in Woman's Journal: "The spirit of the 
Twentieth Century is in his plays and also a spirit of justice anl gener- 
osity towards women." 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



A FEW RECENT PLAYS BY AMERICANS 

Beulah M. Dix's ACROSS THE BORDER 

A play against war, showing in four scenes, two "beyond 
the border" of life, the adventures of a highly likable young 
Lieutenant. He goes on a desperate mission, finds The Place 
of Quiet and The Dream Girl, as well as The Place of Winds, 
where he learns the real nature of War, and finally in a field 
hospital tries to deliver his message. With 2 illustrations. 
80 cents net. 

New York Tribune: "One of the few pleas for peace that touch both 
the heart and the intelligence. ... Its remarkable blending of stark 
realism with extravagant fancy strikes home. . . . It is well nigh 
impossible to rid one's mind of its stirring effect." 

New York Times: "Impressive, elaborate and ambitious. ... A 
▼oice raised in the theater against the monstrous horror and infamy of 
war. . . . The Junior Lieutenant has in him just a touch of 'The 
Brushwood Boy.' " 

Of the author's "Allison's Lad" and other one-act plays 
of various wars ($1.35 net), The Transcript said, "The tech- 
nical mastery of Miss Dix is great, but her spiritual mastery 
is greater. For this book lives in the memory." 

Percival L. Wilde's DAWN and Other One-Act Plays 

"Short, sharp and decisive" episodes of contemporary life. 
Notable for force, interest and at times humor. $1.20 net. 

DAWN, a tense episode in the hut of a brutal miner, with 
a supernatural climax. THE NOBLE LORD, a comedy 
about a lady, who angled with herself as bait. THE 
TRAITOR is discovered by a ruse of a British command- 
ing officer. A HOUSE OF CARDS, about a closed door, 
and what was on the other side— tragic. PLAYING WITH 
FIRE, a comedy about the devotion of a boy and girl. THE 
FINGER OF GOD points the way to an ex-criminal by 
means of a girl he had never seen before. 

Lily A. Long's RADISSON: The Voyageur 

A highly picturesque play in four acts and in verse. The 
central figures are Radisson the redoubtable voyageur who 
explored the Upper Mississippi, his brother-in-law Groseil- 
liers, Owera the daughter of an Indian chief, and various 
other Indians. The daring resource of the two white men in 
the face of imminent peril, the pathetic love of Owera, and 
above all, the vivid pictures of Indian life, the women grind- 
ing corn, the council, dances, feasting and famine are notable 
features, and over it all is a somewhat unusual feeling for 
the moods of nature which closely follow those of the people 
involved. $1.00 net. 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



By Clayton Hamilton 
STUDIES IN STAGECRAFT 

Contents.' The New Art of Making Plays, The Pictorial 
Stage, The Drama of Illusion, The Modern Art of Stage 
Direction, A Plea for a New Type of Play, The Undramatic 
Drama, The Value of Stage Conventions, The Supernatural 
Drama, The Irislv National Theatre, The Personality of the 
Playwright, Where to Begin a Play, Continuity of Structure, 
Rhythm and Tempo, The Plays of Yesteryear, A New De- 
fense of Melodrama, The Art of the Moving-Picture Play, 
The One-Act Play in America, Organizing an Audience, The 
Function of Dramatic Criticism, etc., etc. $1.50 net 

Nation: "Information, alertness, coolness, sanity and the command 
of a forceful and pointed English. ... A good book, in spite of 
all deductions." 

Prof. Archibald Henderson, in The Drama: "Uniformly excellent in 
quality. . . . Continuously interesting in presentation . . . 
uniform for high excellence and elevated standards. . . ." 

Athenaeum {London) : "His discussions, though incomplete, are 
sufficiently provocative of thought to be well worth reading." 

THE THEORY OF THE THEATRE 

The Theory of the Theatre. — What is a Play? — The 
Psychology of Theatre Audiences. — The Actor and the Dra- 
matist. — Stage Conventions in Modern Times. — The Four 
Leading Types of Drama : Tragedy and Melodrama ; Comedy 
and Farce. — The Modern Social Drama, etc., etc. 

Other Principles of Dramatic Criticism. — The Public 
and the Dramatist. — Dramatic Art and the Theatre Business. 
— Dramatic Literature and Theatric Journalism. — The Inten- 
tion of Performance. — The Quality of New Endeavor. — 
Pleasant and Unpleasant Plays. — Themes in the Theatre. — 
The Function of Imagination, etc., etc. 4th printing. $1.50 net. 

Bookman: "Presents coherently a more substantial body of idea on 
the subject than perhaps elsewhere accessible." 

Boston Transcript: "At every moment of his discussion he has a 
firm grasp upon every phase of the subject." 



THE GERMAN DRAMA OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 

By Georg Witkowski. Translated by Prof. L. E. Horning. 

Kleist, Grillparzer, Hebbel, Ludwig, Wildenbruch, Sudermann, Haupt- 
mann and minor dramatists receive attention. 12mo. $1.00. 

New York Times Review: "The translation of this brief, clear and 
logical account was an extremely happy idea. Nothing at the same time 
so comprehensive and terse has appeared on the subject." 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



BOOKS ON AND OF SCHOOL PLAYS 

By Constance D'Arcy Mackay 

HOW TO PRODUCE CHILDREN'S PLAYS 

The author is a recognized authority on the production 
of plays and pageants in the public schools, and combines en- 
thusiastic sympathy with sound, practical instructions. She 
tells both how to inspire and care for the young actor, how 
to make costumes, properties, scenery, where to find de- 
signs for them, what music to use, etc., etc. She prefaces it 
all with an interesting historical sketch of the plays-for-chil- 
dren movement, includes elaborate detailed analyses of per- 
formances of Browning's Pied Piper and Rosetti's Pageant 
of the Months, and concludes with numerous valuable an- 
alytical lists of plays for various grades and occasions. 
' $1.20 net (Feb., 1914). 

PATRIOTIC PLAYS AND PAGEANTS 

Pageant of Patriotism (Outdoor and Indoor Versions) : — 
♦Princess Pocahontas, Pilgrim Interlude, Ferry Farm Epi- 
sode, *George Washington's Fortune, *Daniel Boone : Patriot, 
Benjamin Franklin Episode, Lincoln Episode, Final Tableau. 

Hawthorne Pageant (for Outdoor or Indoor Produc- 
tion) : — Chorus of Spirits of the Old Manse, Prologue by the 
Muse of Hawthorne, In Witchcraft Days, Dance Interlude, 
Merrymount, etc. 

The portions marked with a star (*) are one-act plays 
suitable for separate performance. There are full directions 
for simple costumes, scenes, and staging. 12mo. $1.35 net. 

THE HOUSE OF THE HEART 

Short plays in verse for children of fourteen or younger : — 
"The House of the Heart (Morality Play)— "The Enchanted 
Garden" (Flower Play)— "A Little Pilgrim's Progress" (Mor- 
ality Play) — "A Pageant of Hours" (To be given Out of 
Doors) — "On Christmas Eve." "The Princess and the Pix- 
ies." "The Christmas Guest" (Miracle Play.), etc. $1.10 net. 

"An addition to child drama which has been sorely needed." — Boston 
Transcript. 

THE SILVER THREAD 

And Other Folk Plays. "The Silver Thread" (Cornish) ; 
"The Forest Spring" (Italian) ; "The Foam Maiden" (Celtic) ; 
"Troll Magic" (Norwegian) ; "The Three Wishes" (French) ; 
"A Brewing of Brains" (English) ; "Siegfried" (German) ; 
"The Snow Witch" (Russian). $1.10 net. 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



ARCHIBALD HENDERSON'S THE CHANGING DRAMA 

Its Contributions and Tendencies. By the Author of "George 
Bernard Shaw : His Life and Works," "European Drama- 
tists," etc. 12mo. $1.50 net. 

The pioneer book in English in its field. While a number 
of good books, taking up important dramatists and discussing 
them one after another, are available, this is probably the first 
that describes the significant changes and movements in the 
drama of the last half century, illustrating them by the work of 
leading dramatists and by apt citations of and quotations from 
their plays. The author, publicist as well as dramatic critic, 
aims to show the expression of the larger realities of con- 
temporary life in the drama, the widening of social influence 
of the stage, the new technic, form, and content of the play, 
the substitution of the theme for the hero, the conflict of wills 
for that of arms, etc. In short, to give a brief but authorita- 
tive general survey with a more detailed appraisal of some of 
the chief creative contributions. 

The chapter headings indicate the content and scope of the 
work : Drama in the New Age ; The New Criticism and New 
Ethics ; Science and the New Drama ; The New Forms — 
Realism and the Pulpit Stage; The New Forms — Naturalism 
and the Free Theatre ; The Battle with Illusions ; The Ancient 
Bondage and the New Freedom; The New Technic; The 
Play and the Reader; The New Content; The Newer 
Tendencies. 

The author, though an American, has also studied the 
drama in the theatres of Great Britain and the Continent, and 
has before this demonstrated that he is a dramatic scholar 
and a keen, clear-eyed, entertaining critic. His articles have 
appeared in La Societe Nouvelle, Mercure de France, Deutsche 
Revue, Illustreret Tidende, Finsk Tidskrift, T. P.'s Maga- 
zine, etc., etc. 

Maurice Maeterlinck said of his "Interpreters of Life" 
(now incorporated in his "European Dramatists") : "You 
have written one of the most sagacious, most acute, and most 
penetrating essays in the whole modern literary movement." 

"It is a really great work," said Professor William Lyon 
Phelps of "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works." 

Of his "European Dramatists," The Dial said: "The criti- 
cisms of their work are keen and lucid, and have the advan- 
tage of coming from one who has studied the plays 
exhaustively." 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS vii'14 NEW YORK 



SIXTH EDITION, ENLARGED AND WITH PORTRAITS 

HALE'S DRAMATISTS OF TO-DAY 

Rostand, Hauptmann, Sudermann, 
Pinero, Shaw, Phillips, Maeterlinck 

By Prof. Edward Everett Hale, Jr., of Union College. 
With gilt top, $1.50 net; by mail, $1.60. 

Since this work first appeared in 1905, Maeterlinck's Sister 
Beatrice, The Blue Bird and Mary Magdalene, Rostand's 
Chantecler and Pinero's Mid-Channel and The Thunder- 
bolt — among the notable plays by some of Dr. Hale's drama- 
tists — have been acted here. Discussions of them are added 
to this new edition, as are considerations of Bernard Shaw's 
and Stephen Phillips' latest plays. The author's papers on 
Hauptmann and Sudermann, with slight additions, with his 
"Note on Standards of Criticism," "Our Idea of Tragedy," 
and an appendix of all the plays of each author, with dates of 
their first performance or publication, complete the volume. 

Bookman: "He writes in a pleasant, free-and-easy way. . . . He 
accepts things chiefly at their face value, but he describes them so ac- 
curately and agreeably that he recalls vividly to mind the plays we 
have seen and the pleasure we have found in them." 

New York Evening- Post : " It is not often nowadays that a theatrical 
b >ok can be met with so free from gush and mere eulogy, or so weighted 
by common sense ... an excellent chronological appendix and full 
index . . . uncommonly useful for reference." 

Dial: " Noteworthy example of literary criticism in one of the most 
interesting of literary fields. . . . Provides a varied menu of the 
most interesting character. . . . Prof. Hale establishes confidential 
relations with the reader from the start. . . . Very definite opinions, 
clearly reasoned and amply fortified by example. . . . Well worth 
reading a second time." 

New York Tribune: "Both instructive and entertaining." 

Brooklyn Eagle: "A dramatic critic who is not just 'busting' him- 
self with Titanic intellectualities, but who is a readable dramatic critic. 
. . . Mr. Hale is a modest and sensible, as well as an acute and sound 
critic. . . . Most people will be surprised and delighted with Mr. 
Hale's simplicity, perspicuity and ingenuousness." 

The Theatre : " A pleasing lightness of touch. . . . Very read- 
able book." 



HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



I 






























Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2007 

PreservationTechnologies 

AWORLO LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATIOM 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township. PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



